

Class 

Book 

Copyright N n 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 












FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


BY 

ALICE CALHOUN HAINES l 

\s 

AUTHOR OF "FIRECRACKER JANE*' 



NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 

681 FIFTH AVENUE 



Copyright, 1922, 

By E. P. Dutton & Company 


All Rights Reserved 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED 
STATES OF AMERICA 


-6 1922 ■ 


©CI.AR81628 



n^d < u 


JEDEDIAH TINGLE 

WHO 

VISITS AND VANISHES 
IN GRATITUDE 
FOR 

MAGICS FULFILLED 





CONTENTS 

PART I 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Of Something Lost in the Sea and 

Found Again 3 

II. Of a Bird that Flew Away — How an 

Artist Should Be Like a Crusader . 21 

III. Of a Wind and Dancing Flowers — How 

Katheryn Would Not Stay to Supper 34 

IV. How Mama Soledad Came Back for Lisa 

— and the Stars are Nothing But 
Balls of Fire 44 

V. Talking About Fairies 59 

VI. Men’s Eyes and a Mirror no Bigger 

Than a Scallopshell 74 

VII. How Mama Soledad Sent Word for Lisa 

to Come — But It Wasn’t Possible . . 88 

VIII. To the Birth of a Star 105 

IX. In April Weather 115 

X. How Michael Finds the Sleeping 
Beauty and Wakens Her From a Bad 
Dream 126 

XI. “Out of the Whirlwind” . . . .139 

vii 


CONTENTS 


viii 


PART II 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XII. The Island ......... 157 

XIII. Of the Difference Between Tatcho 

Romano and Mongrel 176 

XIV. How Morella Told La Buenaventura 194 

XV. The Good Americans 206 


XVI. How it May Prove Convenient to Have 

an Aunt Who Collects Teapots . .219 

XVII. How Michael Went to France for 
Love— and Lisa Learns How Strange 
a Thing Happiness Can Be . . 237 

XVIII. How Lisa Told Charles’ Fortune — “La 

Vida Est Sueno” 254 

XIX. Flower of the World . . . . . . 266 








FLOWER OF THE WORLD 

















Flower o' the broom. 

Take away love, and our earth is a tomb! 

— Fra Lippo Lippi. 


El alma es consonancia 
De to do lo creado, y sus amores 
Son la luz, la fragancia 
De estrellas y de flores; 

<! Quien detiene perfumes y fulgores ? 

— Juan Valera. 


[The soul is harmony 

With all created things, and the soul’s loves 
Are as the light, the fragrance 
Of stars and of flowers; 

Who can withhold their perfume, their effulgence?] 


PART I 







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FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


CHAPTER I 

OF SOMETHING LOST IN THE SEA AND FOUND AGAIN 

A MAN lay basking on the sunny rocks. He was a 
big handsome fellow, blond bearded, blue eyed. 
He sprawled there, half sleepy, half smiling, and watched 
a child dancing in the breaking surf-line along the nar- 
row curve of beach below. The swift swirl of the waters, 
the shift and shimmer of revolving sands, far from 
inspiring any sense of apprehension, seemed to excite 
the little dancer to a wild and reckless ecstasy. 

She could not have been more than seven or eight 
years old. Unconscious of audience, bare-headed, her 
tattered wisp of a skirt clinging about her little thin 
legs, she pranced in the spray. She had flung a wreath 
of kelp over her shoulders. Now and then she gave a 
shrill shriek. The reedy sound floated up to the man 
like the cry of a sea-bird. 

The rocky ledge from which he watched jutted out 
above the rim of horseshoe beach so that his position 
was very similar to that of a spectator in a loge over- 
looking the stage of a theatre. A flight of rickety steps 
led down to the sands ; but it was hidden from the child 
by a jut in the cliff. 


3 


4 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


The day was very bright, cloudless, but windy. A 
mounting tide surged and lashed among the great boul- 
ders that girdled the shore. On a flat-topped rock, 
already 1 half submerged, a flock of gulls had gathered. 
Occasionally one would rise, circle slowly above its 
mates and settle again. 

The small dancing shadow of the child, swaying over 
the wet sands, fascinated the man. Her solitary play, 
at first an enigma to him, was instinct with grace and 
purpose. Suddenly she caught up the dripping ends 
of kelp that hung from either shoulder. Arms extended, 
with a free wide-flung movement, she waved them wing- 
like about her. At last he understood. . . . Her slim 
little person seeming actually to float through the 
spray, she mocked and mimicked the gulls. . . . 

The man jerked to a sitting posture,— reached out 
for the sketching-block beside him. In the sudden draw- 
ing up of his knees his foot struck a loosened stone. 
It shot to the cliff edge, balanced there a moment, — then 
ricocheted to the sands below. . . . 

The child, startled, looked up; — took a scared leap 
back, missed her footing and fell. For a moment she 
struggled, clutching among the slippery rocks. A wave 
broke over her, — dragged at her, — she was gone. . . . 

Light tennis shoes, flannel shirt and trousers, — the 
man gave thankful thought to his artist negligee as he 
dashed down the wooden stairs. ... A treacherous 
coast at the best, — and a bad turn of the tide. . . . 

Not a sign . . . not a sound. . . . Having snatched 
and devoured, a lull seemed to have fallen on the sea. 
Gone? Was it possible, — that dancing, spritelike thing? 


OF SOMETHING LOST IN THE SEA 5 


The gulls rising in a gray bevy beat out over the 
sparkling pitiless waste. . . . Pitiless. . . . What 
chance? — drifting as weed drifts. . . . 

There, — flung up on a froth of churning breakers. 
. . . Just beyond the gulls’ rock. . . . 

The man was swimming now, — swimming magnifi- 
cently, — cleaving his way with powerful overhead 
strokes. . . . 

The waves mounted, lashed themselves into new fury, 
— battling and struggling for their tidbit. 

A thin little arm. ... A swirl of meagre garments. 
. . . He snatched, — dived and snatched again. . . . 

With one hand holding the thing he had rescued (it 
struggled faintly like a half-drowned kitten) he fought 
his way back to the beach. Here he took it by the 
heels and shook the water out of it. . . . Not entirely 
scientific, perhaps, — but effective. The kitten, having 
choked and strangled, wanted to mew. 

“There! there! no harm in a little salt-water. . . .” 
The handsome fellow breathed hard, tossing a shower 
of sparkling drops from his blond beard. He stooped 
and picked up the sweater he had shed in his race down 
the steps to the sands: — “How’s this to warm us up?” 

It was then the kitten opened its eyes ; and the man 
saw they were the color of the sea; neither green, nor 
gray, nor brown, — but the hidden color of the under 
side of a wave. . . . 

“To-morrow will you dance for me?” he asked. 

A wan little smile flickered; she relaxed and cuddled 
down in the curve of his arm. 


6 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


He drew the sweater more closely about her and began 
to mount the steps to the cliff. . . . 

The artist colony at San Miguel took content in its 
remoteness, — a content not unmingled with pride. It 
made open boast of the one shabby, old, shambling- 
verandahed frame hotel, where few tourists ever lin- 
gered; of the fact that the post-office was a branch of 
the village grocery store, and that if you were new 
enough to think you were going to have a gas-range 
installed in your bungalow you promptly discovered you 
must compromise on oil. Nobody was wanted at San 
Miguel who came for anything other than the shaggy 
shadows of giant eucalyptus along the gray road run- 
ning up from the sea ; the brown rolling dunes beyond ; 
or the smashing surge of surf along the rocky shore. 
There was not much else to come for. Anywhere be- 
tween four and six in the afternoon the postman’s 
striped umbrella and sturdy white pony might be de- 
scried topping the hills from Val Verde. He brought 
yesterday’s Los Angeles papers. Railway and trolley 
service ending at Corona, the beach station beyond Val 
Verde, summer vacationists were little to be feared. 

Socially and geographically the settlement at San 
Miguel divided itself into three strata. There were the 
Portuguese fisher-folk living in their driftwood shacks 
along the kelp-strewn sands of Smugglers’ Cove. There 
was the “old village” with its sleepy cross-roads, pun- 
gently redolent of eucalyptus, cedar, and damp salty 
spume. They still “kept Sunday” in the old village, and 
had their own opinion of the “painter set” on the cliffs 


OF SOMETHING LOST IN THE SEA 7 


above; — Steven Spanach’s neckties and Mrs. Andrews* 
cigarettes. . . . 

Steven was a Serbian. To him, red was a beautiful 
color, equally suitable for a sunset, a flag, or a cravat. 
• . . Nobody had ever succeeded in affixing any definite 
habitat to Mr. Andrews ; but Mrs. Andrews came from 
Alabama. She had large dark eyes which she opened 
on you intently as she talked. . . . 

“Even You must admit,” she challenged Joseph Brent- 
wood, “that we Artists are privileged to make our own 
Precedents. Was not Vision given us that we might 
look Forward, — rather than back!” 

Brentwood smiled at the “even You. . . .” He under- 
stood well enough they thought him an old fogey. 
That they half despised his systematic habits of regu- 
lar industry, his assured yet entirely unspectacular 
safety of standing. What they said was, he didn’t do 
anything but repeat. You had only to compare his 
“Golden Slopes at San Miguel,” commissioned for the 
new state library and still in process of execution, with 
the “Long Road to the Sea,” which had first brought 
him notice some fifteen years before. . . . Well, — he 
admitted he had struck his stride. But somehow he 
couldn’t bring himself to believe sunshine a thing to go 
out of date. In the village they liked his pictures, — 
understood them. When he painted a sheep it looked 
like a sheep, — and no guessing ! ... It was always his 
place they pointed out: — “That long gray bungalow, 
the first on your way up, belongs to Brentwood, — 
Joseph Brentwood, — the Father of the Colony. . . .” 
He found it pleasant they should call him that ; even at 


8 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


such times as he envied the younger men, their ardors, 
their rebellions, almost their defeats. 

Half a mile beyond Brentwood’s, high among the 
dunes, was Robert Martyn’s studio. It was there they 
gathered to drink tea. Certainly, there was nothing old- 
fashioned about Martyn. His dashing, almost too sty- 
listically pungent, illustration work was known from 
one end of the country to the other. . . . “The reason,” 
Judith, his wife, supposed, “for our moving to the Paci- 
fic Coast! Katheryn, who rhymes hobgoblins, aspires 
after classic verse. Robert pines to do the usual in the 
way of marines. . . 

“Jove, but she digs!” Little Fred Smalley (whose 
own marines were quite “the usual”) broke into his 
accustomed cackle. “If a chap will marry a woman 
with eyebrows like that. . . .” 

Kate Griffeth, to whom the aside was addressed, ig- 
nored it ; — glancing across at Robert. He rarely talked 
when he worked. The mail brought more orders for 
illustrations than he could well fill. Tall, aquiline, 
reserved, sensitive, he gave nothing of Brentwood’s im- 
pression of comfortable accomplishment. . . . To-night 
he was obviously tired. The quick contraction of the 
brows might merely indicate a straining to make the 
most of the fading light. 

“How much will you get for it?” asked Steven 
Spanach, suddenly. 

There was a general laugh. Steven was nothing if not 
direct. 

“No escaping the current touchstone,” Brentwood 


OF SOMETHING LOST IN THE SEA 9 


assured them, more than half serious. “Deplore it as 
one may, common-sense can’t evade the conclusion that 
the market price does reflect a certain standardization 
of values. . . .” 

Mrs. Andrews bent forward. “Are we, who Seek 
. . . ?” The bit of buttered roll she had lifted to her 
lips slipped from her fingers. . . . Wide-eyed she fished 
for it down the square-cut neck of her loosely fitting 
smock. . . . 

“Who Seek?” prompted Judith maliciously. Evi- 
dently it was one of her “off” afternoons. Smalley was 
right as to the danger signal. When her brows drew 
together like that there was something positively preda- 
tory in the flash of her glance, her pitiless taloned wit. 
. . . She was a woman, one would have said, who had 
everything; and who consumed herself eternally because 
it was not all somehow different. . . . 

Kate, putting down her empty teacup, walked to the 
door, — flung it wide. . . . Tiny with distance, low in 
the twilight-burnished sea, three homing fishing boats 
were framed there as in a picture: — 

“They’ve had a good catch! One is always glad. 
. . . But I believe I’m tempted to agree with Mr. Cort- 
wright, — the sea simply isn’t paintable. . . . Clouds, 
rocks, the shoreline, perhaps. . . 

Her dark irregular features vibrant with response, 
the girl turned back to the room. 

“Cortwright will hardly get here this afternoon.” 
Brentwood had also risen, taken up his hat. “Off 
somewhere on the cliffs. . . . Half-cousin to a goat, — 


10 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


that fellow!” There was never any sting to Brent- 
wood’s jests, their content being as kindly tolerant as 
the man’s own nature. “You’re going?” 

“Not just yet. . . 

A shade of disappointment crossed his face; though 
his walk it appeared was not to be unaccompanied. 
Mrs. Andrews, relinquishing her explorations, declared: 
Really, she must go. She wanted to Talk to Mr. 
Brentwood about that new Varnish. . . . 

The ripple of the lady’s departure subsiding, Judith, 
bending to her alcohol flame, wondered whether Mr. 
Andrews was, after all, “decently interred, — or merely 
nebulous?” Then she asked Steven Spanach if she 
couldn’t fill his cup. 

Steven declined. He admired Brentwood. “Good old 
papa,” he said. “Good heart, good bank-account. 
. . . Solid, — like bread and butter. ...” 

Smalley, seeing Spanach ready to go, disposed of his 
tea in gulps. “Varnish? . . . Get that?” A convul- 
sion of the Adam’s apple indicated inhibited cachinna- 
tion, stoppered at the fount. . . . “ Varnish , — well, why 
not?” The two young men shared a room at the hotel. 
When Steven sold a picture (he had ability and was 
beginning to make his way) apparently they shared 
that, too. What other bond of congeniality existed 
between them would have been difficult to discover. . . . 

Perhaps, Judith suggested, Mr. Smalley selected 
Steven’s cravats? . . . “Another cup, Katheryn? Evi- 
dently Philip Cortwright isn’t coming. . . .” Even 
among her tea-things there was nothing restful about 


OF SOMETHING LOST IN THE SEA 11 


Judith. “It’s no concern of mine, of course; — but, if 
one can’t have cake ... an appetite for ‘bread-and- 
butter!’ . . .” 

“ Merci du cademi ! I’m not even conscious of an 
appetite for more tea. . . .” It never ruffled Katheryn 
when Judith stuck pins. To her the pity seemed that 
a woman who had so much should still be unhappy 
enough to care to make enemies. “Michael is the only 
escort I want. May he walk with me, — to the foot of 
the bluff?” 

“Mother, — say yes !” 

At the sound of his name a boy, perhaps ten years 
old, sprang to his feet in the flickering fireglow. So 
quiet had he lain there on the hearth-rug most of them 
had forgotten him. . . . 

“It is a good deal like a menagerie,” he entertained 
himself, his fancy catching whimsically at Brentwood’s 
“half-cousin to a goat. . . .” “All but Father and 
Mother and Kate, of course. . . . Yes, — Mother is a 
hawk. Can I help that? And my father the man, she 
thinks, who tried to put her into a cage. . . . Mr. 
Smalley is like the organ-grinder’s monkey. Sad and 
angry inside, but ready to do tricks for anybody’s 
pennies. . . . When I wink, — that’s nicer. . . . The 
sparks turn to golden butterflies. . . .” 

Standing now, with flushed cheeks: — “Say yes , 
Mother !” he cried. . . . 

“Why should I?” It hurt Katheryn to see Michael 
flinch. “Did you come this morning when I called you 
to practise?” 


12 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


“You may go, Michael.” For the first time Robert 
spoke, — stepping back from his easel. His voice 
sounded flat, without timbre. . . . 

“To-morrow. . . . I’ll practise till my arms drop 
off !” As instantly vivified by the permission as he had 
been dashed by its refusal, the boy bounded jubilantly 
to Katheryn’s side. He was a singularly attractive 
child, graceful and delicately built. In this he took 
after Judith; though in no other way did his bright, 
fair, almost flowerlike beauty resemble her smoldering 
flame that scorched where it should have comforted. 
Sensitive, highstrung like his father, it was hoped 
Michael had something of his father’s gift. . . . 

“I should think,” said the girl, as they swung along 
together through the salt-scented gloom of undulating 
dunes that seemed to rise wave after wave ahead of 
them to the low-drooping, faintly starred sky, “I should 
think you would love your violin.” 

“Oh, Katheryn, I do. . . . Sometimes. . . . It’s this 
everlasting practise, practise, practise, I can’t bear. 
What’s the use? . . . when if they kept me at it for 
a thousand years I could never play the music that I 
hear?” 

“You, too? Poor little Michael. . . . 

“ ‘ Ah , hut a man’s reach should exceed his grasp , 

Or what’s a heaven for?’ ” 

Michael’s only answer was a joyous noncomprehend- 
ing laugh, accompanied by a comradely hug of his 


OF SOMETHING LOST IN THE SEA 13 

companion’s arm. It was always a treat to him to be 
allowed to go home with Katheryn. . . . 

She and her brother Owen lived in a little ramshackle 
frame cottage, hidden like a ragged gull’s nest amid a 
clump of cedars half way up the cliff north of Abalone 
Point. Stormy weather when the winds tore and howled 
about the house, people wondered it was not snatched 
up bodily and tossed into the sea. 

Sometimes, when Michael had permission to stay to 
supper (but that was not to-night) they would enter 
the low raftered living-room to find a black iron pot 
simmering among the hot ashes on the hearth. . . . The 
first thing you noticed was the warm good smell of the 
stew. The next would be Owen’s eyes that seemed to 
burn at you out of the shadows where the couch was 
in the comer. . . . 

“You’re all right?” Katheryn would ask a little 
breathlessly. She never seemed able to get it out quick 
enough. And when Owen said he was, Kate would stir 
the red embers and get down the long-handled toasting- 
fork. It was Michael who made the toast. He did it 
beautifully. . . . But one night a piece broke and fell 
into the fire. . . . “It’s spoiled,” the boy cried. “Oh, 
it’s spoiled!” Kate laughed and brushed the ashes off. 
. . . But Michael could not eat any supper. 

As a rule there were no accidents; and when every- 
thing was ready, the three of them, cross-legged on the 
floor about the fire, — built to a blaze again, — plates in 
their laps, would make a regular picnic of it. And per- 
haps Katheryn would tell fairy stories ; or Owen, 
his stooping shoulders and pain-wan face wavering 


14 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


strangely in the reflected firelight would break into 
chanting snatches of poetry: — 

“I dreamed in a dream I saw a city invincible to the whole 
of the rest of the earth; 

I dreamed that was the new City of Friends. . . 

Michael, looking into the fire, his knees hugged to 
bis chin, would see the city there. ... A shining golden 
wall standing out from a dark background of hills. . . . 
But if Owen had been working he did not try to talk. 
He coughed and put his hand to his side. Then Kath- 
eryn would watch anxiously and have no story to 
tell. . . . 

It was not till years afterwards that Michael realized 
the gallant tragic struggle back of these firelit feasts; 
and by that time both Katheryn and Owen Griffeth had 
passed out of his life. 

There may have been others who realized something 

of it. . . . 

Brentwood, interested from the first in the unfor- 
tunate boy’s talent, had one day told Katheryn her 
brother might go far if only he could be persuaded to 
break that “broncho imagination of his to harness. 

• . . Steady, steady does it. . . . Goethe had the idea, 
— ohne Hast , ohne Rast. . . .” 

“Oh, but stars, — don’t get tired !” Katheryn did her 
best to keep the desperation out of her voice. “And 
he oughtn’t to work. . . . Not at all, really. Spine as 
well as lungs. . . . What he says is, — as long as 
there is life there shall be strength of will to do the 
things. . . 


OF SOMETHING LOST IN THE SEA 15 


Brentwood looked away. Disconcertingly to both, 
Kate was having to hunt her handkerchief. 

“How old is he?” 

“Twenty-three. . . .” There were only the two of 
them. Since she was sixteen Kate had played the triple 
role of sister, mother, chum. . . . 

“And, — you understand it is not curiosity. ... I 
have had experience of what that sort of thing can 
mean. . . .” In the days of his early struggle Brent- 
wood had lost a young wife. . . . “Is there anything 
beside these. . . .” The gray-headed painter waved his 
hand toward the brilliant, partially finished sketches, — 
bizarre, lurid splotches against the dingy walls, — “to 
keep the pot boiling?” 

“My seashell articles, — and the Goblin Washing Pow- 
der ads.” Kate tried for a laugh. . . . Only that 
morning the postman had brought back a long, familiar 
looking envelope. . . . The songs that would sing 
themselves, musical haunting echoes of far winds, once 
“rejected” became to her sensitive conscience a re- 
proach. . . . To cover the laugh’s deficiencies : — It was 
Owen’s illustrations that put the Goblins over, she said. 
The more fantastic they were, the better they seemed 
to take. 

“May I see some of them?” Brentwood spent half 
an hour looking through the portfolio Kate brought. 

“Too bad, too bad,” was his only comment as he got 
up to go. At random he took a book from the table. 
“You read Spanish? Translating might help out. . . .” 

From that time he called oftener than ever at the 
shabby little shack among the cedars; and discovering 


16 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


the afternoons Kate was to be found at the Martyns* 
made those his afternoons there, too. 

The depth of reserve of her own nature was perhaps 
what caused so many different sorts of people to find 
Katheryn sympathetic. . . . When Steven Spanach 
came it was generally swinging a string of sand-dabs, 
a fresh caught mackerel, or glistening baracuda. . . . 
“They don’t smell so nice as roses, you think?” he would 
pretend to tease, his black eyes snapping. 6 ‘Wait till 
you fry them, — in butter !” Owen liked Steven, though 
his gusty entrances and exits, — on the order of those 
of “the West Wind, Esq.” — often left him flat and 
rather gasping. That was because the two would shout 
Revolution at each other. 

But if Philip Cortwright dropped in, immediately 
Owen shut up. It would be Katheryn then who- found 
herself laughing, parrying almost lightheartedly the 
young sculptor’s gay banter. . . . Cortwright had only 
recently moved into his beautiful new studio on the 
crest of the cliff. He expressed himself delighted to 
have neighbors. . . . Discovering that Owen was not 
to try for the exhibit that spring, and half suspecting 
the cause, Philip good-naturedly offered to frame any- 
thing the boy might select to send up. But Owen curtly 
refused. 

“Poor devil! Too green-eyed to see where his own 
interest lies,” Fred Smalley elucidated the incident. 

Smalley was an unconscionable little gossip. They 
all knew he talked about them ; and put up with it. For 
the sake, Judith liked to declare, of what he might be 
going to say about the others. A small colony at 


OF SOMETHING LOST IN THE SEA 17 


that time ; tolerant and good-humored toward one 
another. 

So, for this reason or that, Michael was the only one 
ever asked to supper. To-night he was not to stay. 

“See, Michael!” exclaimed the girl, as they came to 
the footpath that would take them up and round the 
bluff : — “Mr. Cortwright must be having company. 
Probably that committee from San Diego come to look 
at the model of his new fountain. . . .” 

A still evening had succeeded the glittering bluster 
of the afternoon, with a white mist drifting in from the 
sea. High on the crest of the cliff, shimmering through 
the fog, gleamed the sculptor’s studio, — a light in every 
window. 

Michael drew in his breath. The effect was fairylike : 
— “Katheryn! I’d rather be Mr. Cortwright than — 
anybody in the world!” 

“Why?” she asked, interested. 

“Oh, — he’s so free! Whatever he wants to do he 
seems to do, — without even trying. . . . When he plays 
his flute, it’s like wild birds singing in a wood. . . . And 
if he wants to model he goes out on the sunny rocks. 
Then when he comes back to the studio. . . . Have you 
ever seen him work? Father says he has ‘an instinct for 
anatomy. . . .’ He — stands with his head up and his 
eyes shut, — maybe ... as if he were calling for what 
he wants. And then . . . phew! I — I can’t explain 
very well. „ . . But it’s the way I feel about my violin. 

. . That I could really play — if only I lived off all 
by myself on a high cliff, — with nobody to love me and 
drag me down. . . .” 


18 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


“Michael !” the girl laughed. “For shame! Notan- 
other step shall you come with me. Run home to your 
father and mother this minute !” 

Philip Cortwright, as it happened, was not entertain- 
ing any art committee. Standing in his neatly ap- 
pointed kitchenette, he poured hot milk from a small 
aluminum saucepan into a blue Canton china bowl. 
Suddenly becoming conscious of a smell of scorching he 
set the bowl on the dresser, turned and adjusted another 
burner of the oil-stove over which was a brown-covered 
pipkin wherein some cereal was cooking. . . . Holy 
Moses ! It wasn’t the porridge. It was her clothes ! 

Philip dashed through the studio door. 

Across the long, brilliantly lighted room, the sea side 
of which seemed all window, before the great brick fire- 
place, suspended on an improvised line between two 
handsomely carved chairs, hung the threatened ward- 
robe: — a drabbled wisp of petticoat, a brief and faded 
little cotton dress. 

Philip took them up, shook out with his usual pre- 
cision of gesture their forlorn meagreness ; folded them 
neatly, and laid them on one of the chairs. 

Then he returned to the kitchen. The cereal had 
taken advantage of his absence to burn after all. So 
he cut a slice of bread and broke that into the hot 
milk; then placed a spoon in the bowl and carried it 
through the studio to the bedroom beyond. . . . 

In the middle of the big brass bed, alert, watchful, 
still, the little half-drowned dancer he had snatched 
that afternoon from the sea was waiting for him. As 


OF SOMETHING LOST IN THE SEA 19 


he entered the room, her eyes leapt to his face and 
fastened there. 

So far she had not spoken. Stunned, buffeted by the 
waves’ rough usage, she had clung to him; had sub- 
mitted to have her wet things removed; had set her 
teeth against the whisky he had tried to force down 
her; had gone suddenly so limp, so blue about the 
nostrils, that Philip, frightened, had laid her on the 
bed. 

When he brought blankets she disappeared beneath 
them to huddle like some small trapped animal, — one 
tiny hand clutching a fold through which he guessed 
she was peeping. So he drew a chair to the bedside and 
waited. Finally, fancying her asleep he had gone into 
the kitchen. 

Now, returning, he found her waiting for him, — a 
small fantastic figure, propped high against the pillows, 
— almost lost in the gorgeous folds of an old Oriental 
dressing-gown he had thrown across the bed. 

“I thought,” said Philip, stopping in the doorway, 
held back somehow by those sea-strange eyes, “I thought 
it was about time you would be wanting your supper. 
Seagulls must eat, if they are to dance, you know.” 

He approached and held out the bowl. Still studying 
him, very cautiously she took it. 

“That milk’s good,” he told her. “I heated it for 
you.” 

She tasted it. Evidently she was hungry. Once she 
had begun to eat she enjoyed the warm bread and milk, 
but without greediness, — handling her spoon with a 
certain dainty gusto. . . . 


20 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


“Nice, wasn’t it?’* said Philip, when he saw she had 
nearly finished. “Perhaps now you can go to sleep.” 

“Si, senor the little creature answered. “ Tengo 
mucho sueno” Then, hesitating, with a pretty half 
lisp: — “I like my supper. ... I like my bed. ... I 
like my new dress, — but the mangas are too long for 
me. . . .” 

Philip threw back his head to laugh. “Delighted, 
I’m sure. Wouldn’t disturb you for the world. Only 
as that is usually mg bed, can you tell me where I had 
better sleep?” 

She looked at him puzzling. Evidently, English was 
an effort to her. Then as the sense of his question 
dawned, a wave of the hand encompassed in the too 
long “manga” indicated the open studio door : — 

“There is another bed in that room. You may sleep 
there.” 

“Thank you so much,” retorted Philip. “I let you 
sleep in my bed. . . . To pay for it, — you shall dance 
for me!” And he retreated still laughing to make up 
the couch in the studio. 


CHAPTER II 


OF A BIRD THAT FLEW AWAY HOW AN! ARTIST SHOULD 

BE LIKE A CRUSADER 

I T was under the shower next morning that a belated 
thought assailed Philip. . . . His little dancer had 
a name. Pf! pr! he splashed and reveled in the cold 
spray. . . . Certainly, he ought to have asked it! A 
child of that age was liable to parents, — half a pair, 
at the least. The value set on offspring appeared to 
be in no way regulated by the ability to provide for 
them. . . . Ragged and neglected as the waif’s condi- 
tion was, a widowed mother might at this moment be 
tearing her hair . . . two uncles, a big brother, setting 
out with shotguns. . . . 

The chief thing was, — he must get that dance ! 
Plenty of time for family reunions. . . . 

Thinking the matter over as he dressed, the conclu- 
sion was obvious. The child was a stray from the Por- 
tuguese fishing village. This being the case, she must 
have wandered some five miles along the shore. From 
Smugglers’ Cove round Abalone Point was a great way 
for such a mite ; with stretches at certain stages of the 
tide not only difficult but actually perilous. ... It 
would have taken her half a day at the least. When 
21 


22 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


with evening she did not return? People of that order 
always counted on the worst. They might raise the 
devil of a fuss. . . . 

He paused in his whistling. . . . Then took it up 
again, — there being one infallible panacea. . . . He’d 
pay. He’d pay, of course; — but they needn’t think they 
were going to gouge him ! 

The weak link in the argument appeared, — he had 
no recollection of having seen the little dancer before. 
All of them got models from the fishing village. She 
was not the usual typo. It seemed a little odd then? 

So much the better. She was his find! What pos- 
sible claim had Smalley, for instance? Clumsy dab- 
ster! let him try, — he’d never catch her. . . . There 
was a grace, — a touch of wild and untamed poetry. . . . 

Smiling, Cortwright gathered up the heap of forlorn 
little garments from the chair where he had placed them 
the evening before. In the doorway to the bedroom he 
paused. . . . Unconsciously he had been expecting to 
find her as that other time, propped high against the 
pillows waiting for him. But the bed was empty. 

Suddenly Philip chuckled. The mirror opposite re- 
vealed a ridiculously quaint and feminine reflection. 
On a chair pulled up before the dressing-table stood his 
little dancer, — oblivious, laboriously absorbed in pin- 
ning about her miniature anatomy the loose heavily- 
flowered folds of the all too ample Oriental dressing- 
gown. . . . 

“Good morning,” accosted Philip. “I see you are 
an early riser.” 

She turned to gaze. “ Buenos dia$ y senor .” 


OF A BIRD THAT FLEW AWAY 


23 


Then with quick dramatic gestures indicating this 
part of her dress and that she began to chatter, — a 
liquid unchecked flow, — rapid, musical, emphatic; but 
practically incomprehensible to Philip, except that he 
gathered she wanted to explain her inability to accom- 
plish a satisfactory fit. 

“Too big,” he agreed. “Altogether too big. Better 
take it off again and put on your own things.” 

“No! no!” His meaning gradually dawning, she 
clutched closer the flowery folds, frowning an imperious 
displeasure. “No quiero !” It was only a word here 
or there Philip could get; till with a little stamp she 
emphasized in English: — “Old! old and ugly! I will 
wear this. Make it for me!” 

Less skilled than a painter would have been in the 
impromptu adaptation of costumes, Cortwright sought 
to compromise. Didn’t she like oranges? They were 
going to have oranges for breakfast. 

Yes, naranjas were good. She would eat one, — after 
her dress was made. . . . 

Seeing no way out of the difficulty but abject capitu- 
lation or the exercise of a distasteful and rather ridicu- 
lous physical supremacy, the argument finally ended in 
Philip’s producing scissors, needle, and thread. An 
awkward enough job he made of it; the little dancer 
frequently interrupting to scold him. . . . 

“What is your name?” he asked as he snipped and 
basted. 

“Lisa. . . .” 

“Lisa what?” 

Looking over her shoulder into the glass she frowned : 


24 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


— “No, senor. . . . No! God’s Mother! A man with- 
out eyes could make better. It goes so. . . 

Philip adopted the correction. “Then what is your 
father’s name?” 

“No tengo padre ” 

“Where do you live?” 

She shook free her silken skirts ; turned slowly round 
on the chair smiling at her reflection; craning her 
little brown neck where a string of dark coral beads, 
all that remained of yesterday’s attire, completed the 
effect : — 

“A — ah !” A long breath of satisfaction : — “Es 

mug bonito !” 

“And now will you dance for me?” 

“Senor, I will eat my orange now. . . .” 

Philip Cortwright was accustomed to considering 
himself the best natured fellow in the world. He was 
also entirely accustomed to having his undisputed way ; 
nor did he especially think to correlate the two phe- 
nomena. 

The little dancer, having finished her orange, began 
an inspection of the studio. Flitting in her bright 
silks from object to object, half startled, half fasci- 
nated, she suggested to Philip a butterfly touring a 
. strange garden. Where anything especially interested 
or attracted her, she would pause, — sometimes reaching 
out to touch it with a light little hand. Instantly, hav- 
ing touched, she would glance at him over her shoulder. 
He pretended not to notice: — slipped into his blouse 
and continued to busy himself with preparations for the 
morning’s work. . . . 


OF A BIRD THAT FLEW AWAY 25 


“ Preciosa ! Muy preciosa!” The child had stopped 
before the model of a fountain completed by Cortwright 
the week before. 

The design represented the figure of a mermaid ris- 
ing from a wave. The base of the statue being in relief, 
a mere fishlike indication, the rounded young bosom and 
gleaming arms freed themselves above, head and hands 
thrown back to shake out a cascade of dripping misty 
hair. Cortwright considered it the best thing he had 
done. Oddly flattered by the child’s praise he crossed 
to her and began to explain how when the fountain was 
set up in its basin in the park and pipes attached real 
water would spout from the mermaid’s hair. . . . 

“And now, if you will take off your clothes,” he said, 
“and dance for me as you danced yesterday, here on 
this platform, I will make an image of you even more 
beautiful than this, — and give you a silver dollar be- 
sides !” 

As usual, she listened attentively, puzzling out his 
meaning. At last a flash of merriment broke across the 
changeful little face. She cast up both hands to laugh ; 
— a rippling crescendo of delicious appreciation. . . . 
Take off the clothes to dance ! It was evident the idea 
struck her as the funniest joke in the world. 

“Come !” Philip was not accustomed to having people 
waste his time. Almost any moment, now, might bring 
an invasion of voluble, hysterically injured relatives: — 
“I mean just what I say. See — here is the dollar!” 

He held it up before her between thumb and finger. 

Again she laughed, — and made a graceful little play 
of leaping to snatch it from him. 


26 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


“No you don’t!” Cortwright proceeded to pocket the 
coin. “Not till you dance for me. . . .” 

Devil take the girl! He was beginning to feel ac- 
tually exasperated; conscious of a sense of vexation 
and frayed nerves. What did she think she was? Since 
yesterday he had done nothing but wait on her. . . . 
Little ragged fisher’s waif, with all the self-importance 
and whimsy affectation of a prima donna! 

“Come, — I’ve no more time to waste. . . . Dance 
for me, — and you shall have your dollar. . . 

He put out his hand to her dress. . . . 

Instantly she had sprung beyond his reach. Hei 
vibrant little person seemed to tingle, actually to sparkle 
with her wrath. With spread wings, — that was the 
impression he received, — and flashing wide-open eyes 
like an angry wasp she buzzed at him : — 

Take off the clothes to dance! . . . Her vivid ges- 
tures translated for her. He must think her crazy ! To 
dance one wore one’s best, — necklaces, breastpins, ear- 
rings. . . . Successively she touched throat, breast, the 
little pink lobes of her ears. ... Ah ha! She saw 
what he wanted ! It was to steal away her beautiful new 
silk dress! 

“Damn!” blurted Philip; and flung out of the room 
to the kitchenette where he began to clatter among the 
breakfast things. 

Once a week a woman came from the village to clean. 
The rest of his work Cortwright did for himself, naively 
boastful of the accomplishment. He was one of those 
men unconsciously contemptuous of any feminine claim 
to practical consideration. A woman’s beauty might 


OF A BIRD THAT FLEW AWAY 27 


charm him, her wit entertain him. Superficially suscep- 
tible, even here there was a sort of sixth sense, — cynical, 
distrustful, on guard. . . . 

This morning, having put up cups and saucers, 
scalded out the sink, hung mop and dishtowel in the 
sun, he felt his habitual good temper restored. Children 
as models did usually play the devil. It was his rule to 
fight shy of them. But lie must get that dance ! . . . 

Not a sound from the studio. Had she curled up 
and gone to sleep like a stray kitten? Cortwright 
slipped noiselessly to the door. 

The child was standing in the window. 

Visitors to the studio were apt to drift to this wide 
sea-window where there was no other limit to the view 
than that of vision itself. Wind-driven clouds, — a flash 
of gulls’ wings, — ever the changeful wonder of the sea. 
. . . Many were the compliments received by Philip on 
the panorama there displayed. It was part of his 
temperament he should accept them as something per- 
sonal. . . . 

Hardly anything so abstract would hold the little 
dancer. Absorbed, almost furtively intent, she did not 
even turn as he came to stand behind her. . . . 

Sure enough, — along the strip of rocky beach where 
yesterday the child had danced, — a troop of Mexican 
gypsies was taking its southward way. Red, green and 
yellow, in all the colors of the rainbow, the women fol- 
lowed their undersized swarthy faced men. A straggle 
of brown bare-legged children, scattering like sandpipers 
before the waves. ... A pretty girl with long earrings 
and many necklaces, who drove a tiny ass on which was 


28 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


packed a dozen or so small wicker cages, — the native 
periquitos and canaries peddled by the gypsy women 
where they stopped to tell fortunes at the various seaside 
resorts. . . . Other burros laden with cooking utensils 
and camp paraphernalia, the usual assortment of mon- 
grels, completed the train. Looked down on from the 
high studio window, animated, gesticulating, it was like 
the passing of a band of gnomes. . . . 

“Gone!” The expression of the child’s face as she 
lifted it to Cortwright was curious, — half gratified, half 
doubtful. 

“Gone,” he agreed: — “like floating weed. See, Lisa, 
the gulls are coming back to the rocks. Will not the 
little bird that danced so charmingly yesterday, dance 
for me again?” 

“ Senor , no es posible . . . .” An enigmatic little 
smile flickered the corners of lips and eyelids. “That 
bird has flown away. ...” 

The Martyns’ had been a love match. It was Judith’s 
own tongue that had made havoc of her dreams. . . . 
Even at the first Robert had had his doubts : — 

“I’m afraid you don’t quite realize what you are let- 
ting yourself in for,” he tried to explain. “Just now 
I seem on the crest of the wave. That’s only a lucky 
fluke, due to this poster craze. As a matter of fact, 
my present vogue is nothing but an interruption. . . . 
I’ve always intended to do big things. I have the vision, 
— the power, I believe. But it will take years and years 
of the hardest sort of work. . . 


OF A BIRD THAT FLEW AWAY 


29 


“You don’t love me !” the girl had flashed back. “If 
you loved me, you wouldn’t say such things. . . 

It was because he did love her the thrust silenced him. 
He loved her so much he knew there was just one other 
thing he loved more. . . . Even in those days Judith’s 
tongue was a sword. The sheen of her hair was like a 
raven’s wing. In her glance burned the fire of winter 
stars. Radiant creature that she was, she might have 
had any one of half a dozen other men. It was Robert 
that she wanted, — and Robert she took. 

She had no fortune. She had been brought up to 
believe she would marry money. Her aunt’s opposition 
to the match merely hastened it : 

“All right. You’ll find out. I wash my hands of 
the consequences. . . .” 

Judith, who had been selected for adoption from 
among seven attractive, if impecunious, nieces because 
of her “possibilities,” did find out. And Robert found 
out, too. Once a man had a family there was no let 
up, — no possible turning back. His very facility, it 
appeared, was to be his undoing. His posters blazed the 
way for his illustration work. Slave as he would, he 
never got anything put by; never found himself in a 
position to refuse orders. 

Judith was not a woman who knew how to retrench. 
“We have to live, don’t we?” was one of her favorite 
phrases. “And there’s Michael’s future, — his musical 
education. You are always talking of Germany. . . . 
Is it your intention we should swim there? Perhaps 
that was your idea in a seaside studio ? A Long Island 
resort would have seemed less — roundabout !” 


30 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


He did not answer. . . . That was the worst. . . • 
He never answered. The onus of their intolerable quar- 
rel was always left to her. . . . And, somehow, she 
couldn’t drop it. Judith harbored no illusions, — even 
about herself. Lying awake, night after night, in the 
bitter darkness, she acknowledged she was jealous, — 
passionately jealous of Robert’s silence, — for his silence 
was his Dream. She was even jealous of Michael’s gift. 
. . . From the first Michael had meant so much to 
Robert ! 

“He’s not a bit like you,” the young father had said 
one day, looking down into the boy’s fair sleeping face. 
The remark was entirely casual. But Judith took it 
to mean she was no longer first. And she wished she 
had died before her baby was born ! 

So, if it was not one thing, it was another. Robert 
had come to accept it; had quite given up trying to 
find out in what his shortcomings lay. Day after day 
he stood at his easel, silent, frowning a little, perhaps, 
when Judith nagged. . . . Try as he would he could 
not school himself to entire indifference. . . . Her re- 
current stabbing gibes were like a red hot needle stab- 
bing at his brain. The work he was doing was nauseous 
to him ; relegated to a corner, face to the wall, was the 
canvas he had begun months before. . . . 

Only yesterday Kate Griff eth, standing before it, had 
said: — “It’s tremendously suggestive . . . that light 
— and the follow-up dance of the ripples. ... I see 
what you’re trying for. ...” 

He had counted on a winter of uninterrupted work! 

Now, of course, Judith had to turn it about. . . . 


OF A BIRD THAT FLEW AWAY 


31 


“Heavens, Robert! If you’d only stop daubing out! 
Didn’t you once tell me Penelope was a name that ran 
in your mother’s family? If it isn’t finished now, it 
never will be. There is a practical point of view; — 
and I can’t see your bronchitis is a bit better here than 
it was in New York, or that it means anything to 
Michael but the loss of advantages. . . 

The shimmer of his Dream flickered and died. . . . 
After the day’s long, distasteful drudgery there was 
no resistance left. . . . 

“Whist night, isn’t it?” he parried mechanically. 
“They’ll be coming, — before I have time to dress. . . . 
Put that thing back, Judith. You may be right. What 
I want now is a little breathing spell. And here comes 
Smalley. He’ll help you with the tables. . . . No, — 
he didn’t see me. I’ll slip out the back way. Michael 
must be through practising by this time. A walk will 
do us both good.” 

Michael, banished to the tent-house where his prac- 
tising would not disturb his mother, hailed his father 
as a deliverer. . . . 

“How long on the scales?” 

“Two hours, Father. . . .” 

“How long on the bowing exercises?” 

“Two hours. . . .” 

“But you’ve been crying. . . .” 

“I only cried half-an-hour, Father. . . • Then I 
worked. . . .” 

Judith, who could not cry, sometimes envied Michael 
his tempestuous gusts of rebellious weeping, that left 
him, shaken, wan-eyed, washed out. . . . 


32 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


Katheryn Griffeth, always his champion, had one day 
remonstrated : — 

“You work him too hard. He isn’t the sort to be 
driven. If you were my father I’d hate you, Robert 
Martyn.” 

“You’d be making a mistake,” Martyn answered* 
whimsically. “A mistake Michael doesn’t make. If he 
is ever to amount to anything he must conquer his; 
nerves. People talk of the artistic temperament. It’s 
nothing but a form of indulged hysteria. ... I know 
what I’m about. And Michael knows, — if you don’t.” - 

Kate, who felt she understood Michael better than 
Judith or Robert either, said no more. Her partisan- 
ship would only have resulted in an added strictness. 
It was no worse than many of the other mistakes 
parents made, she thought. 

Robert was at least right in believing that Michael 
did not misunderstand him. As a matter of fact, with 
all the inarticulate suffering of sensitive childhood the 
boy apprehended far more of the hidden drama of his 
father and mother’s life than they did of his ; — felt it, 
reacted to it, without the relief of either expression or 
mature understanding. Tormented by a hundred im- 
possible exaggerations, tom by conflicting sympathies, 
from day to day, from week to week, he participated in 
the unequal struggle. And it was probably more to this 
drain than to anything else that his restless nights, 
his over-emotionalized responsiveness were due. Even 
Katheryn, who prided herself on having won his confi- 
dence, entertained no suspicion of the true state of 
things. 


OF A BIRD THAT FLEW AWAY 33 


This afternoon one look into his father’s face was 
enough. The weariness, the disillusion, Michael read 
there made him instantly forgetful of any grievance of 
his own. 

Having silently put up his violin he slipped a cold 
little hand into Robert’s: — 

“Let’s walk up to Mr. Cortwright’s, Father. It — it’s 
so high there! And Katheryn says he’s finished his 
fountain.” 

Martyn’s fingers closed over those of his son. A walk 
with Michael always rested him. There was something 
wonderfully simpatico about the little chap. He was 
game and generous, too. . . . Bitter with thoughts of 
his own defeat, Robert was all the more resolved Michael 
should conquer where he had failed; — that discipline 
should make him master of himself and of his art. . . . 

“You remember that time I took you to hear Jastrow, 
Michael?” They had reached the crest of the cliff and 
stopped to watch the sun, a fiery disk plunging through 
smoky clouds to the cool clear ripples of the sea. . . . 
“You would like to play like that? It all depends on 
what a man puts first in his life. . . . You were reading 
about the Crusaders the other night. An artist must 
be something like a Crusader. The loves and pleasures 
other men treasure he must be ready to trample on, — 
that they may live again in his art. There can be no 
sacrifice too great. . . . There can be no compro- 
mise. . . .” 

“Father!” Michael broke away to run up the path 
ahead of Martyn. “I hear Mr. Cortwright’s flute !” 


CHAPTER III 


OF A WIND AND DANCING FLOWERS HOW KATHERYN 

WOULD NOT STAY TO SUPPER 

M ICHAEL, breathless in the studio door, felt for a 
moment that his heart had stopped beating. 
When it seemed to begin again, he thought the wild 
racing rhythm of it would smother him. 

He had told Katheryn that when Philip Cortwright 
played his flute it was like birds singing in a wood. This 
afternoon the voice that filled the studio was the voice 
of the wind, — high, frolicsome, piping to gusty sweet- 
ness. . . . 

Vague in the twilight shadows, airy as a blown flower, 
a little figure danced. With garments like floating 
petals she seemed to sway toward Michael . . . retreat- 
ing, hesitating, advancing, — hands extended in elfish 
invitation. The light patter of her feet was like the 
whisper of raindrops. ... A glance over the shoulder ; 
— a twitter of secret laughter. . . . Provocative she 
poised before him! Scarcely knowing what he did he 
took her hand, — turned with her, — was dancing too. 

Cortwright in the wide sea-window, legs astraddle, 
head thrown back, piped as for fairies! The glint of 
his rounded eyes, — caught through the half-light, — the 
tilt of pointed beard recalled Brentwood’s expression : — 
“Half cousin to a goat. ...” A faun would be that ! 
34 


OF A WIND AND DANCING FLOWERS 35 


It was Robert’s laugh brought the dance to a sudden 
close. 

“Gad!” he applauded. “Well staged. Excellently 
staged !” 

Philip, all hospitable attention, turned on the lights. 
Michael, to cover his confusion, pretended to look at the 
fountain. The one thing he was really conscious of 
was that the little dancer had followed him ; — was stand- 
ing near him, friendly but shy in her turn. 

Cortwright, half whimsical, half rueful, was explain- 
ing to Martyn his predicament. 

“Yesterday afternoon, you say? The deuce, man! 
That’s twenty-four hours. They’ll have you up for 
kidnapping. . . .” 

“But I tell you, I haven’t succeeded in getting that 
pose yet!” Philip’s usual insouciance was no disguise 
for a very genuine irritation : — “What she will, she will ; 
and what she won’t the devil himself couldn’t drive her 
to. A pretty time we’ve had of it. . . . Once I thought 
of my flute, I could make her dance all right. . . . But 
take off that silk thing? I believe her present deter- 
mination is to be buried in it !” 

Both men laughed, looking toward the children. 

“All the same, I think you’re mistaken about her com- 
ing from the Cove. They’d have hunted her up before 
this. . . . Besides, she’s not the ordinary type. Some 
of us would have spotted her. Look at the set of the 
head. . . .” 

His practised glance followed the curve of ivory- 
tinted throat, the delicately modeled ear, set close and 
rather back, the low full brow. . . . “And those eyes ! 


36 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


. . . She’s a find, all right! Cheekbones a little high. 
. . . Wants to be filled out. . . .” 

“May grow up ugly as a mud fence,” Philip con- 
ceded. “No predicting any permanent quality of 
beauty. At present she’s the most spontaneously grace- 
ful creature I’ve ever set eyes on. . . . That pose yes- 
terday. . . .” 

“I’ll tell you who can place her if anyone can, — 
Kate Griffeth. She’s friends with everybody at the Cove. 
Often takes Michael, — hunting shells and things. . . . 
Michael, come here a moment. Is that little girl one of 
the Portuguese fishers’ children?” 

“Father!” Michael’s repudiation was indignant. 
“How could she be?” 

“I thought not. . . . Kate’s Spanish would help us 
out. . . . Isn’t that she, — rounding the cliff?” 

The footpath where it turned from the dunes to fol- 
low the outer rim of bluff was at a certain angle visible 
from the studio ’window. It was here the evening before 
that Kate and Michael had stood looking up at the 
lights. . . . 

“I’ll catch her !” Although it was impossible to dis- 
tinguish anyone clearly, Philip had sprung through the 
studio door. 

Martyn, a moment later, saw him running bare-headed 
down the path. ... Saw the girl stop to wait where 
she would otherwise have turned off to her own cot- 
tage. . . . 

Smiling at Philip’s lively pantomime (he was bound 
to make a good story of it) Martyn left the window and 
in his turn went to look at the fountain. 


OF A WIND AND DANCING FLOWERS 37 


Clever craftsman, Cortwright. . . . There was a vir- 
tuosity, a clean dexterity, about his work that Robert 
envied. Already accepted beyond most men of his age, 
success seemed to come to Philip without a struggle. 
Weary with the consciousness of his own hidden battle- 
ground Martyn experienced a certain cynical amuse- 
ment over the evening’s developments. . . . At the first 
obstacle the fellow took on like a spoiled kid: — which 
reflection would in no way prevent Martyn doing his 
best to straighten the tangle. . . . 

The children were at the piano ; — Michael striking 
different notes and trying to make Lisa name them. 
Now and then they laughed. 

Katheryn’s voice floating ahead through the door, 
Michael turned, taking Lisa by the hand: — “You 
mustn’t be afraid.” His tone was protectingly reassur- 
ing. “It’s Miss Kate Griffeth, — my very best friend. 
. . .” Then leading her forward as Kate entered : 

“This is Lisa. She has no father, she says. And 
God took her mother up to live with Him among the 
stars. . . 

“ Pobrecita /” Katheryn knelt, throwing back the 
blue cloak she wore, to slip an arm about the child. 

Lisa, though she did not draw away, held herself 
motionless; — her great lustrous eyes, bright and enig- 
matic as an animal’s, gazing with a sort of fearless 
curiosity : — 

“There was a boat,” Michael continued, evidently 
proud of his powers as interpreter, “but the waves were 
too high. So God took her. . . . That mother wore 
beautiful dresses and was young. It was she taught 


38 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


Lisa to dance. Her other mother is old and ugly. . . 

Katheryn led the children to a seat in the window. 
The two men exchanged glances. 

“Where did he get all that, in Heaven’s name?” 

“Oh, a language of their own, I suppose. He’s picked 
up a sort of pigeon-Portuguese from the children at 
the Cove. . . . And Kate gives him an occasional Span- 
ish lesson. . . . I’ve been looking at your sea-lady. 
The sweep of the hair is specially good. Heard any- 
thing further from the committee?” 

“They were to have come down yesterday. Letter 
from Lorrimer this morning. It seems Benson. . . .” 

“Benson, — Good Lord! Who rung him in on you? 
He’s sure to want to put a jacket on her. . . 

The conversation drifting to professional channels, 
they were only recalled by Kate slipping past them, 
Lisa asleep on her arm: — 

“Just dropped off, poor baby. . . . I’m going to put 
her to bed. I’ll tell you when I come back. . . .” 

When Kate did come back it was to find Philip alone ; 
Martyn having wakened to the fact that he had over- 
stayed himself. It was whist night. . . . 

“A gypsy brat !” 

“I don’t think you ought to call her that. . . . It’s 
such a confused little story. From all I can make out 
the old woman must be a gypsy. ... Not her own 
mother ” 

“But . . . Look here! Do you mean to tell me. 
. . .” Philip’s obvious tension found vent in a sort of 
resentful hectoring: — “Why, — she stood in the window 


OF A WIND AND DANCING FLOWERS 39 


this morning and watched them pass! Not a word! 
Not the wink of an eyelash! Sly little. . . .” 

“It’s odd. Everything about her seems odd. That 
she doesn’t belong at the Cove is certain. Michael made 
out as much as I could. There was a boat, — but the 
waves were too high. So God took her mother to live 
among the stars. She never had any father, she says, 
poor mite. . . . And her ‘other mother’ is old — too old 
and ugly. . . . Then something about goats, — ‘ machos , 
muchas cobras!' It’s hard to make anything definite. 
Partly, she doesn’t want to tell (that’s the Mexican) ; 
and partly it’s such a mixed little lingo. Not a word 
of Portuguese, — dismiss that notion. . . . Her Eng- 
lish, you must have noticed, is charming, both as to 
inflection and idiom; though she speaks with effort. 
Hasn’t, I think, been using it lately. Spanish, — a hash. 
. . . Sometimes as good as her English; sometimes 
nothing but the commonest pelado brand. Then she’ll 
begin to chatter, — a different tongue altogether; — 
which was what put me on the gypsy trail. . . .” 

“ ‘Gone !’ That was what she said. I remember, 
now ; — and looked up to see how I’d take it. . . . Gone ! 
Well, they are gone . . . with a full day’s start. ...” 

“And evidently in a hurry. Owen and I saw them 
break camp this morning. It was one of his bad nights. 
Sometimes when he can’t sleep, a walk before breakfast. 
. . . We came on them hustling out of a gully, — just 
beyond Abalone Point. . . .” 

“That would fit in with where I found her. . . .” 

“There was something out of the way. The women 
all chattering, — very much excited. One bony old thing 


40 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


scolding, trying to make them do her way. . . . But 
the men wouldn’t listen. . . . Just hurried them along.” 

“Gone, — like floating weed. . . The phrase re- 
peated itself mechanically. Philip did not remember 
it was what he had said that morning to Lisa. . . . 
“Well, nobody can expect me to take any responsibility. 
There must be institutions. . . 

“Oh, not that! Can’t you see? Whatever the story, 
she isn’t the sort for an institution. . . . They’ve 
picked her up, — kidnapped her perhaps. . • . We may 
never know. . . . But an institution ! Can you imagine 
all that champagne bottled up in a brown holland uni- 
form? . . . one among a hundred with cropped heads? 
I’d take her myself, first. . . . To Owen she’d be 
worth. ...” 

Philip’s face cleared. He held out his hand : — 

“Stay and take supper,” he said. “I don’t know 
when I’ve been so cross. ... You must admit the expe- 
rience somewhat upsetting to a bachelor’s equilibrium. 
But finding’s keeping. I shan’t give her up, — till I 
get that dance, anyway. . . .” 

The fact that both Katheryn and Martyn recognized 
unusual attributes in his protegee revived his own en- 
thusiasm. The gypsy theory, startling at first blush, 
might after all prove an advantage. While it could in 
no way be held to lessen his claim to control of the 
child, it did definitely relieve him of responsibility. 
Before everything else Cortwright was an artist. After 
that he ruled his life according to what best suited his 
comfort and convenience. 

His mother had been Greek; his father an English- 


OF A WIND AND DANCING FLOWERS 41 


man, — with a nose distantly reminiscent of the Hebraic. 
A man of unusual culture and business acumen, he had 
amassed both fortune and reputation as a dealer in 
antiques. Philip’s happy heritage included not only 
an apt facility for executing what was beautiful; but 
the still rarer talent of making people glad to acquire 
his work at his own estimate of its worth. Frankly a 
hedonist, he had so far experienced no difficulty in fit- 
ting his life to his philosophy. 

All good temper again, aglow with genial hospitality, 
he threw another log on the fire, — drew up a chair, — 
would have taken Katheryn by the hand and led her 
to it: — 

“Stay and eat supper, — that’s my friend! I’ll make 
you the prettiest omelet ! . . .” 

Kate smiled, shook her head. “Owen’s waiting. . . .” 

“Will it hurt him to wait, — one evening?” 

“It would hurt me. . . 

“Well, isn’t that Christian — to prefer to hurt one’s 
self, rather than one’s enemy? I shall be most hor- 
ribly hurt, if you do go. . . 

“What makes you say ‘enemy’?” 

“That’s easy. If you were my friend, I shouldn’t 
have to constrain you. . . .” 

“I have many friends I don’t take supper with.” 
Still smiling, she backed away from him toward the 
door. 

Philip followed. The candid independence of the girl, 
giving not an inch to his advances, piqued his interest. 
He liked her long clever hands, the expressive irregu- 
larity of her features. To-night the straight falling 


42 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


lines of blue cloak, an unwonted softness in the dark 
eyes, gave almost a Madonna look. . . . 

“Do stay, Kate!” It was the first time he had ever 
assumed intimacy enough to call her that. “You don’t 
know what a help you are to me!” There was some- 
thing almost boyish in the appeal; — in the quick step 
he took to slip behind her and turn laughing, barring 
the passage with extended arm: — “How I value your 
friendship. . . . Someway, it seems to open new vistas. 

. . . Every time I meet you, you make me revise my 
whole conception of women. . . . There aren’t any 
others like you, I believe!” 

“If I stayed, you’d find me out ! It is only by going 
I can hope to keep so flattering an opinion. . . .” She 
still spoke lightly; did not so much as raise her hand 
to touch his arm, or take even another forward step. 
Yet somehow it was very definite. 

Philip colored a little and moved aside. He liked to 
carry a point. Besides he was not accustomed to hav- 
ing his invitations refused by ladies. . . . 

“Well, if you won’t. . . .” He wasn’t going to seem 
sulky about it. “But there’s a kindness I’m sure you’ll 
not refuse. Come up in the morning and help me 
get that pose. She’ll do for you what she won’t for 
me. . . .” 

“I’m sorry.” Again Kate shook her head. “I’ll 
help any other way.” 

“Good Lord!” Cortwright made no attempt this 
time to hide that he was nettled. “You can’t mean you 
disapprove !” 

“Of course not. It’s what any of us who had her 


OF A WIND AND DANCING FLOWERS 43 


would expect. . . . But it’s something that you and 
she must settle between you. What I mean is, — you’ll 
admit there is a safeguard in the instinct that keeps her 
from being willing to? Well then . . . it’s up to you 
to make her see it your way. And — and — how shall I 
put it?” She laughed on a low breath: — “The Queen 
of Spain, remember, had no legs. . . . Mexicans of the 
better* class remain very Spanish. There are no more 
conservative women under the sun. . . . You do under- 
stand? That she doesn’t want to, — poor little stray, 
— is — is a sort of character (I can’t think of any other 
word) for that mother who lives with God among the 
stars. » . . Good night!” 

She was gone. . . . 


CHAPTER IV 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD CAME BACK FOR LISA AND THE 

STARS ARE NOTHING BUT BALLS OF FIRE 

ATURALLY, there were as many different opin- 



io H ions as to what Cortwright ought to do about his 
little dancer as there were people to discuss the question. 

“Picked up like a stray kitten, by Jove !” was Smal- 
ley’s favorite version. “Saucer of milk and a ribbon 
round the neck, — there you are! Asked him outright 
if he intended to adopt her. Not a thought of such 
a thing. . . . Well then, — where does he stand ? What’s 
his legal claim, — supposing anybody wanted to dispute 
it?” 

“Who’s likely to dispute it?” Martyn walked 
abruptly to the window and back, as was his restless 
way. He never could work sitting down. When he 
talked he didn’t concentrate. . . . “Rather deuced 
clever, — if you come to that. For so seemingly care- 
less a chap, Cortwright has a positive flair for the 
expedient. The role of benevolent patron suits, at 
present. ... If he tires of it. . . .” 

Brentwood shifted uneasily in his chair. “Somehow, 
I can’t feel that’s altogether right. Ought to be some- 


44 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD CAME BACK 45 


thing done to find out the true story, — in justice to the 
child. . . .” 

The afternoon before, calling on Cortwright, Lisa 
had come to stand at his knee; had looked up into his 
face with that strange dark gaze of hers; had slipped 
a quick little brown hand into his pocket and found — 
a cooky! 

Brentwood told her he had brought it to feed the 
sandpipers. 

“Sandpipers live on the beach,” she corrected him. 
“You brought it for me!” 

One might almost have believed she had forgotten 
her Spanish. After the first week or two she rarely 
used it, — except in a quick flare of anger now and then, 
or to emphasize some sought-for word. . . . 

“Talk about women being the romantic sex !” Judith, 
who had at first petted Lisa, much as she might have 
petted Smalley’s “stray kitten,” would now, with as 
little compunction, have seen the child thrown into the 
street. . . . There was no reason for the change; un- 
less it could be called a reason that Michael had taken 
to dreaming of her : — “From Michael up, she has you 
all bewitched. Little brown faced gypsy ! As if it were 
any clue her talking English. . . . They pick up every- 
thing. . . .” 

“Even to the wash on your back fence !” Smalley’s 
smart cackle evinced his usual appreciation of his own 
wit. 

It was on complaint of a farmer’s wife, over Val 
Yerde way, Cortwright had ascertained, that county 
officers had set out for an early morning visit to the 


46 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


gyp s y camp. Warned in some mysterious fashion, the 
band was up and off. . . . This would account for the 
abandonment of the child ; for the hurry and excitement 
noticed by Kate and her brother. Once over the line 
into Lower California, one might as easily have tried 
to follow a bunch of quail. Cortwright’s seemingly 
careless attitude of acquiescence had its excuses. Nor 
was it long before this attitude was to change. 

Though he never succeeded in getting the sea-gull 
pose (“I was dancing for myself!” Lisa dismissed the 
matter) chance was to betray to him a weakness of 
which he promptly took advantage to bribe her to his 
will. 

Money apparently meant little to the child. But one 
day on a visit to the city Cortwright good-naturedly 
bought for her a little bead chain. The pattern was of 
daisies, blue and white with gold centers. He paid fif- 
teen cents for it. . . . Lisa was in raptures. 

“I will give it to you for your very own, — if you 
will be a good girl and do as I say. . . .” 

Next morning she posed for him in her sweet child 
nakedness. 

Cortwright would let no one see his work till he had 
finished it. He called it “The Dewdrop.” Among the 
men at San Miguel it produced a sensation. Indeed, 
it was the first of that series of exquisite child inter- 
pretations which was to place his name foremost among 
the younger group of American sculptors. 

Lisa ran some danger of becoming spoiled. Bewitch- 
ing in her illusive vivacity, for the time being she had 
them all at her feet. So far as Michael was concerned, 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD CAME BACK 47 


Judith’s complaint was justified. The boy lived, 
breathed, dreamed, for only one thing neglected his 
practising and his meals, accepted scoldings and punish- 
ments. . . . Nothing mattered but that he should be 
with her. 

Lisa, always shy of any demonstration of affection, 
came to watch for him. The two children were con- 
stantly together. They developed an annoying habit 
of sudden vanishings. Several times Cortwright, ready 
for work, found his little model missing. . . . 

One late summer afternoon he had waited for her 
till dusk. At last she came running in, her dark eyes 
aflame, — palpitating to a sort of excited triumph. 

“Where have you been?” Cortwright spoke sharply. 
“You knew I wanted you.” 

Lisa laughed, half dancing away from him. It was 
instinctive with her to tease. 

Cortwright, losing his temper completely, reached out 
and shook her by the arm : — 

“You are a naughty girl! Don’t I give you pretty 
clothes and good things to eat? Who would take care 
of you, if it wasn’t for me?” 

She looked into his face a moment. Then : — “I don’t 
have to stay with you, if I don’t want,” she flashed with 
equal resentment. “I can go to Michael’s house and 
let his father paint me. He was painting my picture 
this afternoon.” 

“Painting your picture?” Cortwright found this 
impossible to believe. “What do you mean?” 

He drew her to a chair, placing her between his 
knees. 


48 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


“He was painting my picture,” Lisa repeated. “And 
I like him better than you. He gave me some flowers 
in a basket to hold, — and a beautiful red sash and a 
yellow dress !” 

Jamming on his hat Cortwright went direct to Mar- 
tyn. He was too hot to be reasonable. 

“By Gad!” Martyn laughed about it afterward to 
Brentwood. “Never saw anything so idiotic as the 
way the chap carried on ! I tried to explain it was the 
merest accident. . . . She happened to be here playing 
with Michael. I had a magazine cover to get off. 
Never dreamed he’d object. How in blazes could it clash 
with his work? . . . Mind you, it wasn’t that he’d been 
kept waiting. I told him I knew nothing about that. 
Simply he was mad clear through that anybody should 
presume to use his model. . . . Hang it all, — he ac- 
tually threatened to get out an injunction ! After that 
I lost my temper, too. . . .” 

The quarrel resulted in the children being forbidden 
to play together. 

“Listen to me, Michael,” Martyn explained to his 
son. “You bother Mr. Cortwright going to his studio 
so much. Besides which you’re neglecting your work, — 
not doing anything that’s any good. Your mother and 
I have talked to you about it often enough. This morn- 
ing I mean what I say. If I ever hear of your being 
with Lisa again, I shall whip you. Do you understand 
me?” 

“Yes, father, “Michael answered, rather white about 
the lips. As soon as Martyn was safely at work he 
slipped from the house to scud down to the beach. . . . 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD CAME BACK 49 


He and Lisa had agreed the evening before they would 
meet next morning in their “secret cave.” 

The rocky coast at San Miguel was riddled with 
caves and crevasses. The one adopted by Michael and 
Lisa had a fine sand floor and a high roof. On one 
side was a passage so low and narrow a dog could 
scarcely crawl through. The children made it on hands 
and knees. The opposite entrance was beautiful and 
wide, — a great arch, giving on a smooth ledge of beach, 
so shut in by jutting cliffs that at certain stages of 
the tide it was quite cut off from the rest of the shore. 

The children had decorated the cave with shells and 
festoons of salty kelp. It was here they loved to hide; 
Michael to avoid practising, Lisa to escape the long 
hours of posing that seemed to her so tiresome. Mist 
or sunshine, she would always have been out of doors, — 
dancing along the wet sands, scrambling over the cliffs 
hunting gulls or squirrels’ nests. ... Of a wetting she 
had no more fear than a sandpiper. Springing lightly 
from rock to rock, she would look back at Michael, 
shake the hair out of her eyes and laugh. . . . Yet 
hardy and indefatigable as she was in the open, an 
hour’s work in the studio left her drooping like a wilted 
flower. . . . 

Sometimes, in his fanciful boy’s way, Michael won- 
dered whether after all, Lisa’s mother might not have 
been some kind of seabird. For all her daring she was 
timid, easily startled. . . . “You mustn’t be afraid,” 
he would say to her. “I’ll take care of you. ... I’ll 
take care of you always. . . .” 


50 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


This morning the tide was up. Flat on the stretch of 
sunny sands Michael knew himself safe. He lay there 
waiting a long time. . . . Either in the face of Cort- 
wright’s orders Lisa didn’t dare try to get away, or she 
had forgotten. But Michael wasn’t going back to stay 
shut up practising in the tent-house on such a morn- 
ing. . . . 

They were talking of Germany again. What should 
he do if they sent him to Germany, — away from Lisa ! 

It would kill him, he thought. If a day went by 
without seeing her, he was lost. He dreamed of her 
every night. . . . He did not care any more about 
being a great musician. He did not care if his father 
whipped him ; — though it had frightened and humiliated 
him that the threat should be made. . . . 

As soon as he was really grown up, he would tell Lisa 
how he loved her, — and they would be married when he 
was twenty-one years old. A man could do as he pleased 
when he was twenty-one. . . . She had already prom- 
ised to be his sweetheart. But if she cared anything 
for him, — why did she not come? She did not care! 
She was always laughing, and dancing, and teasing! 
She had never let him kiss her, — not once. . . . 

The first night he dreamed of her, he thought the 
room was full of music. But when he sprang out of 
bed there was no music. ... It was Lisa laughing and 
shaking her hair. He tried to follow her then, as he 
so often followed her over the rocks. . . . But there 
was a dark place. . . . Everything was dark! It was 
too horrible. ... He stretched out his arms and sobbed 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD CAME BACK 51 


aloud, crying: — “Lisa! Lisa!” When he opened his 
eyes, his mother was beside him. . . . 

Next morning Michael did not eat any breakfast. 
He could not eat because he knew that he had broken 
his Resolution. His Resolution had been never, never 
to love any girl at all. ... If only he could answer one 
thing ! 

Was it because his father forgot, he didn’t kiss his 
mother any more? Not even for birthdays ! . . . Why 
shouldn’t she sometimes have gone walking, too? It 
was only Michael and his father who went. When they 
came back, his mother would wait awhile. Then: — 
“What did you talk about?” she would ask. And in a 
little while again: — “What did your father say?” 
Michael did not know how to answer, because often they 
had not been talking at all. . . . 

His mother’s beautiful face was thin, — and there were 
lines about the mouth. ... It was worse than a sore 
throat, — after he had gone to bed at night, — the things 
that she would say ! Michael slept on the screen-porch 
outside the studio window. ... It kept him awake, — 
just being afraid she was going to begin! Most times 
his father would not open his lips. . . . 

But a few nights ago Michael had heard a chair 
pushed back; — heard his father spring up, walk the 
length of the room and turn: — “My God!” The voice 
would have frightened anybody. . . . “Let it be New 
York, then, — if that’s what you want. For the sort 
of stuff I’m doing, Hell, or any other place, would be 
the same!” 


52 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


So they were planning to go to New York, — and to 
send him to Germany. . . . 

“Michael ! Michael !” 

He leapt to his feet. . . . Lisa in the great arch of 
the cavern was calling to him. 

“Michael! Come here quick! Oh, I have a secret. 
... I would not tell it to anybody but you, Michael !” 

He went to her slowly. He would not let himself 
hu~ry. 

“I’ve been waiting for ever and ever,” he said. 

“I couldn’t come before. Something happened.” Lisa 
took him by the hand to draw him into the dimly lighted 
cave. Here she made him sit down and began to whisper 
in his ear : “My Mama Soledad is back. I met her this 
morning, — while I was coming to you. . . . She wants 
me to go away with her. Michael, you come, too.” 

Michael knew more about Lisa’s life with the gypsies 
than anybody else. Long summer afternoons they spent 
in the cave together, it was of this they talked most. 
. . . Of Mama Soledad, who was old and ugly, but 
never let anybody lay a finger to Lisa except herself. 
Of Morelia Demetrio, “the bad girl,” with whom Lisa 
used to fight. Once Lisa had bitten a piece out of 
Morelia’s ear; and Mama Soledad had beaten her for 
that. But Lisa did not care, because afterwards Mor- 
elia was afraid to fight her. She was bigger than Lisa, 
— ever so much bigger; but Lisa could abuse her and 
call her names, and Morelia was afraid to fight back. 
She tried to get Secundio Silva to fight Lisa. But 
Sylvestre Reyes beat Secundio up. So then Lisa could 
call Secundio names, too. . . . 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD CAME BACK 53 


Morelia thought herself so smart! She was always 
trying to find out things. She said when she grew up 
she was going to tell la buenaventura , — like Mama 
Soledad. . . . Once when the gypsies were camped near 
a graveyard Morelia made a hole in one of the graves, 
and put her ear down to hear what the dead people 
were talking about! But Lisa would not listen. She 
ran away. ... If you picked up a stick floating on the 
water, that meant you would beat up your enemy. . . . 
But if you found a piece of red seaweed you would soon 
get a sweetheart. . . . 

“Manuel found a piece of red seaweed. Would you 
take him for your sweetheart?” Michael found it hard 
to get the words out. It was as if someone had tied a 
string about his heart. . . . 

“Oh, no !” Lisa laughed and shook back her hair. 

Manuel was one of the Portuguese fisher boys. 

“Would you take me, Lisa?” 

From under her long lashes she looked at him with a 
slow smile. 

So Michael spent a whole week hunting. He found 
pieces ; but they were not good enough. . . . When he 
had what he wanted, he made it into a necklace and 
dipped it into the sea. Dripping, sparkling with salty 
spray it was more beautiful than if it had been made of 
coral. Lisa let him fasten it about her throat. But he 
must not kiss her! If he would sit down beside her, 
she would tell him about the place where the gypsies 
lived : — 

You had to go to it in boats . . . and there were 
rocks . . . and water, — water all around. “Yes, una 


54 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


isla,” Lisa had not thought of the right name. And 
there were “cabras there, — 7 nuchas, muchas cabras. 

. . .” That was the place the gypsies liked to stay. 
. . . “But they were not really my people,” Lisa always 
finished. “It was just to take care of me, after the 
waves were so high and my pretty other mother fell out 
of the boat. . . .” 

Now Mama Soledad had come back for Lisa. . . . 
She was waiting down the beach with Sylvestre and the 
little gray burro, — so Lisa need not be tired. . . . “But, 
oh, Michael, you come, too ! Then nobody can scold 
us. . . . And your father will not whip you. . . .” 

Shortly after noon, Cortwright indignantly seeking 
his runaway model came on Kate Griffeth under a cedar 
with a book. She told him where the children could 
probably be found: — 

“But don’t be too hard on them! Didn’t you ever 
have a secret cave? Better walk along the ridge to 
Look Out Rock ; — if they’re on the beach you can’t help 
seeing them from there. . . . The way they wriggle 
through that tunnel! Owen and I have laughed. . . . 
Well, — why should we tell? Where’s the fun, if one 
can’t sometimes run away!” 

It was from Look Out Rock Cortwright got them ; — 
just in time. 

The old woman had the sense to know her game was 
up. Her attention attracted by the gentleman’s angry 
shouts and excited gesticulations, she stood waiting 
impassively for him to toboggan down the bluff. Lisa, 
very white in the face, slid from the back of the donkey. 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD CAME BACK 5? 

Michael pretended to hunt for sandcrabs, — digging 
with his toes. 

The gypsy boy, a wild lithe fellow, perhaps a year or 
two older than Michael, — had sprung like a cat to the 
edge of the cliff. Here he hung, looking back, his quick 
eyes gleaming under a shock of shaggy hair; ready at 
the first sign of trouble to take to his heels. . . . 

“It’s a state prison offense,” Cortwright blustered. 
“I’ll have you know it means twenty years in the pen 
if you or any other of your impudent tribe so much as 
poke your noses into these parts again. . . .” 

Old Soledad straightened. She was taller than most 
Mexican gypsies. Despite dirt and rags, — ageworn, 
battered, slovenly, — there was a sort of natural dignity 
and freedom of air. So far, she had evinced the usual 
stolid unresponsiveness of the average, low-class, border 
Mexican, to whom an assumed ignorance of English 
may appear convenient. Now she found tongue: — 

“ Senor , it is not so. Nobody can put me in prison 
for taking la ninita. . . . She is my grandchild, — the 
little one of my only son. . . .” 

Cortwright glanced keenly from Lisa to the hag. 
Certainly, there was no physical resemblance. . . . Ex- 
cept perhaps, — in the carriage. . . ? Yet even here it 
was like comparing the slim grace of some green and 
growing shoot to the stricken decrepitude of a ruined 
tree. . . . 

“And her mother? — a gypsy, too?” 

“Si, si, senor. What else? The mother was from 
the South, — a poor sickly thing. . . . She died before 
the little one was two hours old. Less than a year latei; 


56 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


my son was killed in a fight. It is to me la mmchachita 
owes everything. She was not easy to raise. . . . 
Things have gone hard. . . 

Cortwright shot an abrupt question or two. They 
haggled and bargained. The old woman, a new light in 
her eyes, declared the little one was more to her than 
all the world. . . . 

Sylvestre, swinging to the sands, slipped a sly hand 
into Michael’s pocket. He grinned and winked at Lisa, 
— trying to draw her attention to the knife he had 
frisked. But both she and Michael were too absorbed 
watching the others to notice him. 

It ended in Cortwright turning on Michael and order- 
ing him home, while the rest of the party went on to 
the studio. Here, after another brisk bout of bargain- 
ing, Philip paid twenty dollars to the old woman, — all 
the cash he happened to have on hand, — which was ac- 
cepted by her as full purchase price for the child. 

After the gypsies had gone, Cortwright felt he had 
let himself be beaten out of too much. The old woman 
would probably have been glad to get off with ten. In 
addition to this he was still angry at Lisa, and intended 
that she should be punished. The child was spoiled 
beyond endurance. She must be taught her place. He 
came and stood behind her where she had stationed her- 
self in the window to watch the last of the gypsies as 
they disappeared along the shore : — 

“Twenty dollars is a great deal of money,” he said 
coldly. “There are not many men who would give it 
for a little gypsy girl. I know all about your story, 
now. You heard your grandmother tell me. So we 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD CAME BACK 57 


will have no more nonsense. ... As to the stars” (the 
first white stars of evening were pricking the faint blue 
above the cliff), “it’s time you understood they are 
nothing but balls of fire. No one could possibly live in 
them. You must stop romancing about the past, and 
understand that you belong to me. You are a very 
lucky little girl that I should be willing to buy you away 
from such a life. . . 

She turned on him, then, tense, quivering, furious, 
with all a child’s inarticulate sense of outrage: — 

“You couldn’t buy me !” she cried. “I hate you ! . . . 
Oh, I hate you! It doesn’t matter if you pay much 
much money. ... You couldn’t buy me. ... I belong 
to myself!” 

Before he could stop her she had fled past him to the 
little room (his old trunk-room), that had been fitted 
up for her use. Here she flung herself upon the floor, — 
weeping, screaming, beating with hands and feet. . . • 

It wasn’t what he had said about her being nothing 
but a gypsy. . . . Mama Soledad told lies. . . . Lisa 
shrewdly guessed Mr. Cortwright himself only half be- 
lieved them. . . . But, oh, if the stars were nothing but 
balls of fire, — if no one could live in them, — that was 
like losing her beautiful, young, dimly remembered 
mother all over again ! And if Lisa had not her mother, 
— what had she? 

She lay on the floor and wept a long time ; her angry 
sobs dying at last to a low occasional whimper. . . . 

Would Michael’s father really whip him? Mama 
Soledad had sometimes whipped Lisa. You hunched 


58 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


your shoulders. It was soon over. . . . But Michael 
with his white skin, — his gentle ways. . . . 

“Tell your father you went fishing with Manuel at 
the Cove,” had been Lisa’s advice. “He’ll never know.” 

“That would be a story. I don’t tell stories.” This 
was before they had finally made up their minds about 
running away. 

“No, of course not. Neither do I. . . Which was 
a pretty big one in itself! But Lisa was determined 
Michael must think well of her, — or he might never ask 
to kiss her again. . . . 

As it happened, Michael did get his whipping. And 
in three days he, his father and mother had started for 
New York. From there he was to be sent to Germany. 
He was kept a prisoner in his room till he left, and not 
permitted to see Lisa again. 


CHAPTER V 


TALKING ABOUT FAIRIES 

I T was as natural for Lisa to dance as for the ripples 
of the sea. She danced for Cortwright when he 
played his flute ; she “danced for herself,” light and tire- 
less as a water-nymph on the damp sands in front of 
her “secret cave. . . .” 

“One would almost believe that child has had stage 
training,” Brentwood once suggested. “How else ac- 
count for the suppleness, the practised muscular con- 
trol? Look at her on her toes. . . .” 

“All gypsy girls dance,” Cortwright dismissed the 
supposition. “It’s part of their stock in trade; that 
with fortune-telling and a few other inherent proclivi- 
ties. . . 

Since his interview with old Soledad, speculation as 
to Lisa’s antecedents frankly irritated him. Such in- 
quiries as were possible he had made. There being no 
way to disprove the gypsy’s story, the practical attitude 
was to accept it and let the child start new. Forgetting 
the past, she would sooner accommodate herself to the 
present. His good twenty dollars, he considered, en- 
titled him to that much. 

Not that Philip any longer grudged the price. With 
Michael’s elimination Lisa had settled down. Once hav- 
59 


60 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


ing made up her mind to accept the drudgery of artist’s 
model, she brought to her task a plastic grace, an intui- 
tive dramatic instinct, that infused an entirely new 
element into Cortwright’s work. Hitherto recognized 
chiefly for its refined and brilliant execution, there was 
a fresh loveliness, a sort of sweet and innocent appeal, 
about his present conceptions that seemed to breathe 
the very soul of childhood itself. 

.Philip recognized and responded to the impulse, — 
working with a flair, an insatiable capacity. Never 
very considerate of his models, he made no exception in 
Lisa’s case; sometimes holding her to a difficult pose 
till she was numb, rigid, almost paralyzed with fatigue. 
This may have been simply the thoughtlessness of ego- 
tism; it may have been part of a well-considered disci- 
pline. Lisa, either through ignorance, or a sort of 
natural stoicism, did not complain. For his successes 
Philip rewarded her with all kinds of gay trinkets and 
injudicious finery which fed her child’s vanity; exciting 
but never quite satisfying her. There was nothing 
expensive about the presents; — Cortwright being of a 
frugal turn. 

The relation between the two was unusual. Lisa, 
always slow to love or trust, had a long memory, — 
particularly for anything she regarded as an injury. 
She did what Cortwright told her, because she had dis- 
covered the consequences to be unpleasant when she 
rebelled. She had not the slightest scruple about de- 
ceiving him; and there was nothing she enjoyed more 
than an opportunity to tease. 

He, for his part, was proud of her; especially if the 


TALKING ABOUT FAIRIES 


61 


attention she attracted reflected back in any way on 
himself Or his work. He was also decidedly jealous; 
quick to resent outside interference. Without in the 
least understanding the psychology of the child, he 
gained a curious ascendency over her will. By the end 
of the first year, it flattered him to believe he held the 
whip hand. Lisa was weaned from her memories. . . . 

Yet it was at this very time she was meeting Sylvestre, 
the gypsy boy, in her “secret cave.” Sylvestre called 
himself Lisa’s brother; and he really was old Soledad’s 
grandson : — 

“The devil ! He can’t keep you if you want to go,” 
Sylvestre explained. “That was only a slick way of 
getting twenty dollars. Hola! Did you think it was 
forever? A man buys a canary. . . . Next month, 
perhaps, it flies away! Very well, — what can he do? 
Look, — if you’re ever wanting us, — make this sign. 
. . .” He practised her in a curious arrangement of 
pebbles and seashells. “We’ll be passing back by 
here. . . .” 

Lisa shook her head. In her way she was fond of 
Sylvestre. Always, on the Island in the old days, it 
was he who took her part; protecting her against the 
sharp tricks of the other gypsy children, fighting her 
battles with Morelia Demetrio and Secundio Silva. . . * 
But, having known Michael, there was something almost 
repellent to her now, in the wild ragged presence of her 
onetime chum. Curiously enough, it was the memory 
of Michael, quite as much as any secret fear of Cort- 
wright, that kept her from trying to run away this 
second time. Also, for all her romanticism, Lisa was a 


62 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


practical little person. Though she resented posing as 
work, she realized her present life was much better than 
the old one, — wandering about with the gypsies. 

“Not now,” she said. “I don’t want to come back 
now. Perhaps I will some day. And I’ll not forget. 
. . .” She rearranged the pebbles and seashells as he 
had shown her: — “Be sure and tell Morelia I have six 
rings! One of them has a pearl, and two have opals 
in them. . . .” 

Naturally, Cortwright could not be always at San 
Miguel. With his growing popular reputation, outside 
interests, both professional and social, increased. When 
he went away, he would send Lisa down to stay with 
Kate Griffeth. The shabby little shack among the 
cedars came to be more like a home to the child than 
anything she had conscious memory of. 

She posed for Owen. He never thought of giving her 
presents. With him it was like some delightful game : — 

“I’m looking for a fairy,” he’d begin. . . 

It was for Kate’s translation of Spanish folk-tales 
they were working; Cortwright having given his per- 
mission with a sort of generous flourish, though it was 
Brentwood who had fathered the idea and put them in 
touch with a publisher favorably disposed toward it. 

While Owen sketched he would talk to Lisa, embroid- 
ering his legend with all sorts of quaint and personal 
embellishments. It was like being part of a real true 
fairy story! And he never let her get tired. He knew 
too well what that felt like. 

Indeed, between them, it was generally he who gave 


TALKING ABOUT FAIRIES 


63 


out first. The lines about his nose and mouth would 
deepen. The dark circles under his eyes would spread. 
He would begin to pant, and stop, — and pant again. 

“God, if I could only work!” he’d cry. “All the 
fools in the world who can work . . . and don’t want 
to !” 

At last he would fling down his brushes and get out 
on his couch on the porch and lie there in the sunshine, 
his thin hands over his face. Then Lisa would steal 
out, too, and sit beside him on the floor, — quiet as a 
mouse. . . . 

One day when he had been lying that way even longer 
than usual, he turned, — to find her still squatting there 
her great eyes fixed upon him. 

“It’s the things . . . I . . . wanted to do. . . .” 
he said, slowly, painfully. “I — can’t give them up! I 
can’t give them up. . . .” And hardly were the words 
out of his mouth than followed one of his dauntless 
triumphant flashes : “I don't give them up, Kiddo ! 

“If a star were confined within a tomb 

Her captive flames must need burn there! 

But when the hand that locht her up gives room , 
She'll shine through all the sphere ” 

Lisa hadn’t any idea what he might be talking about. 
Snapdragon (her favorite name for him) was always 
saying “poetries,” which she supposed he made up him- 
self. . . . 

Is there anything more terrible than the daily fluctua- 
tions of hope and despair? The silent heartbreak of 


64 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


watching some loved one struggle, — at grips with death? 
Kate would admit to no one that Owen was losing 
ground. “It was the winter fogs,” she said. Others 
spoke of a mild winter. “He always picks up with 
spring. ... I count the days !” 

This to Steven Spanach, who had come to say good- 
bye. He was going “home.” Everybody was sorry, — 
and a little surprised, too. They couldn’t have said 
exactly why, except that in those pre-war days Serbia 
had a remote and rather vaguely violent sound. . . . 

“My father, he’s getting old man, now. Plenty of 
trouble over there! It’s nicer painting pictures in 
California. . . . But! Goodbye, comrade!” Owen’s 
wasted hand was lost in the warm encompassing grasp: 
— “Goodbye, comrade!” was all there was left of the 
Revolution, — their “new City of Friends,” since Owen 
had no breath for shouting any longer. 

That was the way it was with them at San Miguel. 
They came and went. ... A few months’ pleasant in- 
timacy. A tiff or two, perhaps. And so “goodbye!” 
. . . Kate could not help wishing it had been Smalley. 
There didn’t seem much chance. Having fallen heir 
to most of Stephen’s unportable paraphernalia the little 
gossip appeared more firmly rooted than ever, — more 
detestably cocky. . . . He had even sold a picture ! An 
unfinished seascape of Spanach’s, Philip maintained. 

It was a chill morning in February that Owen fainted 
at his easel. . . . Nothing but the smell of the turpen- 
tine, — the closed windows. “He wouldn’t give up. . . .” 
In half an hour he returned to work, — and fainted 
again. . . . 


TALKING ABOUT FAIRIES 


65 


That afternoon Kate asked Brentwood if he thought 
it possible the number of line drawings could be cut 
down. And on a rush that came close to a touch of the 
tragic she told. . . . “Oh, if only he would rest !” Be- 
fore the answering concern in his eyes her own dropped. 
Suddenly it had come to her, — what it meant having 
someone one could tell ! 

The number of line drawings was cut down and the 
full page color plates reduced from eight to six. Some- 
how, the work struggled on. Lisa dancing about the 
room would say: — “Snapdragon’s getting pretty. He 
has such red cheeks !” 

The majority of us as we grow older learn what it is 
to live in the shadow of life’s sadness. To this brother 
and sister the shadows were gathering early. . . . For 
all their courage, they could not sometimes but be 
appalled ; and the brightness of the child’s unsuspecting 
presence helped them through the days. Kate, who had 
always mothered Michael, found it entirely natural, 
despite a multitude of other demands to take Lisa under 
her wing. 

She taught her to read (Cortwright, laughing, ad- 
mitted he would never have thought of that. . . .), to 
write and “do sums.” Lisa learned with an apt docility 
that was surprising. 

“I don’t want to grow up not to know anything,” 
she confided to Owen: — “like those poor little fisher 
children at the Cove. If you know things, people can’t 
cheat you so much !” 

“What do you intend to be when you grow up?” 

“I intend to be a pretty lady,” looking at herself in 


66 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


the mirror, from the reflection of which Owen sometimes 
preferred to work. . . ” And have a great many 
friends, — rich gentlemen, you know, who will give me 
* presents and take me out riding. . . .” 

In some dim, subconscious way the child was thinking 
back; — though she herself, in all probability, had no 
idea what prompted her answer. Even had she known, 
Lisa never spoke of her mother any more; — not since 
that night Mr. Cortwright told about the stars. . . . 

“You have plenty of friends now. Do you like those 
best who are rich and give you presents ?” 

Lisa shook her head, smiling. It was Snapdragon 
she liked best. But Mr. Brentwood was very nice, too. 
Only the day before he had come to take her out in his 
beautiful new car. 

For himself Brentwood would never have thought of 
a car. But one day Katheryn happened to speak of 
how Owen missed getting out, now he was no longer up 
to their old rambles. 

Brentwood did not say anything; just looked at her 
in his kind, understanding way. The following week 
he went to San Diego ; returning in the first automobile 
San Miguel could boast. This was before an endless 
chain of motorists claimed the beach highways. Lisa 
felt very grand when he took her out with him. 

Cortwright was a little impatient of Brentwood. If 
the truth must be confessed, he was impatient of Owen, 
as well. Sick people got on his nerves. There was 
something positively haunting in the boy’s burning eyes, 
his hollow cough, his tragic, frustrated ardors. Be- 


TALKING ABOUT FAIRIES 67 

sides, Owen had never liked Philip; — never taken the 
pains to pretend he did. . . . 

For these reasons, though Philip continued to stop at 
the cottage it was generally to get Kate to go out. All 
winter he’d been working top-steam with big plans 
ahead; — an exhibit in New York; if New York proved 
auspicious, on to Paris! ... A walk with Kate both 
rested and stimulated him: — 

“Oh, come along on!” he’d sing out, sunny after- 
noons, from the foot of the shabby porch steps. “I 
know your soul must be longing for the sight of a 
stranded clam !” It amused him to poke fun at her love 
for sea-things. . . . 

And some days, when Owen was feeling “better,” Kate 
would go. 

From the first there had been a sort of gay give-and- 
take between these two, — a parry and thrust, — as if 
each were on guard, privately determined the vibrating 
consciousness of mutual attraction should find no outlet 
other than that of merry warfare. It is possible this 
surface lightness was kept up of deliberate purpose; 
that both feared, had they not held themselves to it, 
either might be caught, swept out, to some stronger, 
deeper current. 

One evening, swinging along the shore, a tang of salt 
on their lips, their sweater pockets damp and bulging 
with the cockles they had found, Cortwright put out 
his hand to stop Kate as she turned toward the rickety 
flight of steps, — the shortest cut home: — 

“I say, — don’t. . . .” 

“Don’t what?” The wind had whipped the color into 


68 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


her face. A sudden gust caught her skirts, swirling 
them about her. 

“You’re always so ready to cut it short, Kate! If 
we go up those steps, it will be over ... in seven 
minutes. But if we go on and take the trail to the top 
of the cliff, — that means tea at the studio. . . . Hot 
buttered toast and marmalade! And I can show you 
what I’ve got started. . . .” 

“You and your hot buttered toast! Get thee behind 
me. . . .” 

“To be told to go to the devil by a young lady !” 

“ That wasn’t what I said. . . .” Her eyes swept the 
far stretches of the sea, — beaten dark and flat by the 
gale, — with here and there a tossed feather of foam. 
. . . Alight with the beauty of it all they came back 
to him. . . . Beautiful herself in any accepted sense of 
the word Kate was not; — but “different” he thought 
from any other woman ! Poised against the wind there 
was a strength, a youthful nobility and power. . . . 

“By Heaven ! You could help me if you would. . . .” 

“But wisest Fate says ( No; 

This must not yet he so. . . / ” 

she quoted with a touch of gentle raillery. And then : — 
“I will run up sometime. Tonight, — you know I can’t. 
Besides, Mr. Brentwood is coming. . . .” 

“Isn’t Papa pretty generally on deck?” Cortwright 
himself was surprised at his sudden flare of contemp- 
tuous irritation. “You’re banking on him to put your 
book over, of course; and I don’t count. . . .” 


TALKING ABOUT FAIRIES 69 

She looked at him queerly, then ; the smile on her lips 
only making her face the sadder: — 

“Mr. Brentwood doesn’t think that, — about the book ! 
He never has to have things explained. . . .” 

“Kate ! That’s not fair. Do you expect a man like 
me to play Brentwood’s role of Father Confessor? Oh, 
you’re only half a woman, I believe. . . Suddenly, 
he seized her hands, pressed them against his lips, kiss- 
ing them passionately. “Perhaps, — perhaps some day 
you’ll wake up !” 

“You — mustn’t say such things! I — must go back 
... to Owen. . . 

Her voice failed. He knew she was trembling, — that 
it was to hide the tears she turned from him — ran ahead 
up the steps. . . . 

Philip stood looking after her. He had gone farther 
than he had intended. It was the confounded barrier 
she always put up. . . . Well, the remedy for that was, 
— he could keep away. ... 

The spring for which Katheryn had longed and waited 
made little difference to Owen. He could no longer get 
out, even in Mr. Brentwood’s car. They had had to 
give up the sketches. . . . 

“Oh, if the winds would only stop blowing !” Others 
spoke of a beautiful spring. “How can he get strong, 
— in this wind?” 

“There’s the desert,” Brentwood suggested. 

She shook her head. “We did try Arizona. He’s 
determined to stick it out here. . . .” 

The walks with Philip had been given up, by mutual 


70 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


consent apparently. Kate never left the house any 
more, except for necessary marketing trips, hurried 
through, frugally. Even Brentwood had no idea how 
narrow was her margin. . . . With only half the 
promised number of illustrations, the publisher still 
expressed himself “interested.” He must not be kept 
waiting. They had to have the money to see them 
through the summer. . . . But to work with a wolf at 
your heart ! 

One morning late in May there were errands in the 
village that could no longer be put off. As usual, Brent- 
wood had called for Katheryn, since the car saved the 
long pull up the cliff which in the old days had been 
nothing but pleasure. As they swept down the hill, they 
saw Lisa running toward the cottage. The little girl 
stopped to wave to them. 

Mr. Cortwright did not need her that morning. She 
had planned a surprise for Snapdragon. . . . Careful 
not to make any noise she stole in the back way and 
changed to a fairy costume Kate had improvised for 
the folk-tales. . . . 

Owen had had a bad night with fever and much pain. 
Yet he had insisted on rising as usual ; had dressed him- 
self with many a gasping pause, and finally got out to 
his couch on the porch. Far against the billowing 
brightness of the sea, gull’s wings flashed in the sun. 
It was a morning that seemed to hang above the world 
like a sapphire pendant on a chain of gold. . . . 

“Snapdragon! Do you see anything?” 

He turned then and lay watching the little figure that 
pirouetted in the sunlight; — alive, vibrant, sensitive, — 


TALKING ABOUT FAIRIES 


71 


piquant face and dark flashing eyes inviting his admira- 
tion. The dress was too short for her. She had had 
to pin it together in the back. Lisa was growing 

up. . . . 

With a low curtsy the dance ended; — she ran to 
him, settling like some bright-eyed bird at his side. 

“Kiddo, I believe you’ve had another birthday ! 
You’re hardly a little girl any more at all. . . .” 

“Fairies don’t have birthdays. Nobody knows how 
old I am.” 

This was true. And seemed likely to remain so. . . . 

“Isn’t there anything you remember? Try to think, 
Kiddo. . . . Before you were in that boat with your 
mother. . . ?” 

Her lips quivered. She turned away her face. 

“Isn’t there anything?” 

“There’s — something. . . .” in a voice the shyest of 
whispers “like what . . . you dream. . . . This dress, 
— that other time I had one. Lights and people. . . . 
Oh, so many people! There was music, too. I had 
wings and danced. My mother was a fairy. She went 
to sleep. . . . The funny burro-man. . . .” 

“Midsummer Night's Dream! Lyda Leigh! The San 
Francisco !” 

Owen jerked up on his elbow . . . and began to 
cough, — a little dry choking cough. . . . Then came 
the blood, — so sudden, — so terrifying! It stained 
Lisa’s dress. . . . 

“Snapdragon ! Oh , Snapdragon !” 

Ghastly wdth pallor he sank back. ... A mist 


72 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


blurred his eyes. But the old light flared again. . . . 
He struggled, half raising himself: — 

“It’s all right, Kiddo. I don’t. . . .” 

A moment more of labored breathing. 

“Snapdragon!” 

She knew he did not hear. In her fairy dress and 
crumpled wings she crouched beside him. . . . 

Cortwright had a horror of funerals. Owen’s sudden 
death coming before any of them expected it, shocked 
him very much. 

He wrote a sympathetic note to Katheryn, explain- 
ing how sorry he was business should call him away at 
such a time. Then he took a flying trip North. He 
liked San Francisco, — had friends there. It would be 
an opportunity to talk over the Paris plan. . . . When 
he returned to San Miguel a fortnight later, it was to 
learn that Kate and Brentwood were to be married. The 
news relieved and at the same time chagrined him. He 
had suspected Kate of being in love with himself. 

Brentwood confessed the same fear: — “I always 
thought it was Cortwright,” he told her. 

Kate’s clear eyes never wavered. “Mr. Cortwright 
thinks of no one but himself,” she answered. And after 
a moment: — “Poor little Lisa! Do you believe there 
would be any chance ... he would let us take her?” 

It was in, regard to this Brentwood called on Cort- 
wright. 

“We’re leaving for Italy, as soon as we can get things 
wound up. She’s wonderful; but the trip may save a 
breakdown. Since you’re closing up too, for a while 


TALKING ABOUT FAIRIES’ 


73 


. . . we thought it just possible? It is partly her 
brother’s feeling for the child that prompts the 
wish. . . 

Cortwright stiffened. “I appreciate the interest,” 
he said. “But — I’ve never had any desire to shift my 
responsibility. I’m already corresponding in regard to 
schools. . . .” 

Lisa never knew of this offer ; any more than she ever 
attached any personal application to Owen’s startled 
exclamations just before his death. When Kate (they 
had been more like lovers than brother and sister), 
heartsick with longing for the things they would never 
talk of any more, asked: — 

“And what had you been talking about?” 

“We were talking about fairies. . . .” Lisa answered. 


CHAPTER VI 


MEN S EYES AND A MIRROR NO BIGGER THAN A 
SCALLOPSHELL 


ORTWRIGHT’S Paris success was beyond his 



hopes. “The Dewdrop,” “The Wild Flower,” 
“The Butterfly,” won instantaneous and enthusiastic 
recognition. Flattering as had been their reception at 
home, Paris took them to her heart. 

Society also opened its doors. Debonair, good-look- 
ing, gifted, the young American sculptor became quite 
the lion of the season. He had come for a flying visit. 
He stayed year after year. There was really nothing 
to take him back to San Miguel. The old group there 
was scattered. It may be he had felt more in regard 
to Kate Griffeth than he was willing to admit, even to 
himself. 

As for Lisa, her present stage of length and legginess 
made her a negligible factor in his plans. Shortly after 
the Brentwoods’ departure for Italy, the child had 
sickened. She was in bed six weeks ; a low slow fever 
the village doctor found difficult to diagnose or deal 
with. When she got up again, — a shadowy, spindle- 
shanked, elongated metamorphosis of her former 
sprightliness, irritable and given to moods — Cortwright 
was glad enough to pack her off to school. 

It was a good school he selected; one of the most 


74 


MEN’S EYES AND A MIRROR 


75 


fashionable and exclusive on the Pacific Coast. It gave 
him genuine satisfaction to talk of her there. The story 
took. Up-to-date hostesses maneuvered for it : — “Such 
a romantic tale! Endangered his own life to snatch 
her from the waves. Nothing but a little gypsy girl. 
. . . And all the beauty that has come of it!” 

Cortwright himself grew to cherish a sentimental 
regard for those early memories, — a regard Lisa by no 
means appeared to share. 

“ Why didn't you let me tell about myself ?" she wrote 
angrily. “ How can things be nice for me here when 
you have told about me f" 

She had had her story all made up, poor child. It 
had lacked neither color nor ornamentation ! As it hap- 
pened, Cortwright received a substantial rebate through 
the sympathy excited by his version. . . . 

“And you should send my money when it is the right 
time . 1 always know if my money comes late. People 

are not so nice to me then. Because I know how to fight 
and take my own part , the other girls call me a Mexican 
Wildcat . But I think of things they do not. I spit in 
a girl's eye for calling me that ! Would you like to have 
to write out ten irregular French verbs twenty times 
over ? But 1 needn't stay here. 1 can go away. Any 
day I want I know how I can go away. I wish you 
would send me a gold locket and three silver bangles. 
Everybody says I dance best of all. Mexican Wildcat , 
indeed! 1 like that. Yes , thank you!" 

It really hurt Cortwright that Lisa showed so little 
appreciation. He was doing the right thing by her and 
intended to see it through. 


76 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


Naturally, with time she adjusted herself to school 
life, just as in the old days she had adjusted herself to 
posing. She never made a brilliant record, except with 
her dancing. There she excelled. It was not long be- 
fore a class of younger children was put in her charge. 

“I am happy to he able to report ” Cortwright read 
with satisfaction, “that Lisa has acquitted herself 
toward her new responsibility in a way that more than 
justifies the experiment. In her relations to her little 
class she is a changed creature. It is pretty to see how 
the children love her and would flock after her all day 
long. We feel more hopeful about her development than 
ever before. Next term , if she continues to do as well , 
we should consider it only fair to her generous patron 
that a still further reduction be made." 

It was not so very long before Lisa was practically 
earning her own tuition. Philip continued to forward 
expenses for board, clothes, incidentals, a present now 
and then. She still had her restless moods, her clashes 
with authority, which he was occasionally called on to 
smooth over. Satisfied with the obvious, especially 
satisfied with the creditable part played by himself, he 
had not a suspicion of the thousand hidden desires, — 
pathetic, beautiful, shocking, — of the soul of the child 
turning to woman. Her letters, sometimes gay, some- 
times rebellious, always entertaining, gave no hint of 
the beasts she grappled with; — envy, deceit, anger; of 
the angels she entertained. 

Any young girl must have found the situation difficult. 
Lisa was proud, she was stubborn, she resented control. 
Above all, she longed to shine, to be praised and noticed ! 


MEN’S EYES AND A MIRROR 


77 


Sensitive to beauty, responsive to kindness, her whole 
vibrant little personality athirst and athrill for pleasure, 
there was a tacit distinction made between her and her 
companions ; — a distinction that cut like a whip. At 
this, the crucial, formative period of her life she burned 
under an angry sense of injustice, of daily snubs and 
humiliations. . . . 

One afternoon a riding party had been planned to a 
nearby Mission. Lisa, having no saddle-horse allow- 
ance, was generally excluded from such excursions. On 
this particular occasion there happened to be an extra 
mount. Having received permission, palpitating with 
suppressed excitement, she dressed for the ride. Then 
at the last moment a stout and blowsy Kansas City girl, 
Emmie Schmidt, by name (of the house of Schmidt and 
Bamberger, packers) expressed a desire to go. Emmie 
kept no saddle-horse, either; but she could have kept 
three had she wanted them. Naturally, Lisa was in- 
formed she must wait till next time. . . . 

“My word, but that girl has a temper ! Pipe her face 
as she got down to let Emmie up ?” 

“Gypsy blood, — they say.” 

“There are gypsies camped over near the Arro- 
yo Seco. I heard the gardener telling Miss King- 
lake. . . 

“We’ll pass them this afternoon, then. . . .” 

They did pass the gypsy encampment; — a ragged 
little brown tent or two, half hidden among the chapar- 
ral on the further slope of the arroyo. . . . Some 
browsing donkeys. ... No other sign of life or anima- 
tion ; — till a stone thrown slyly from behind a clump of 


78 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


bristling cactus nearly unseated the alarmed and indig- 
nant Emmie, and an instant eruption of shaggy grin- 
ning imps scuttled under the very feet of their horses 
begging for pennies. The riding-master scattered them 
with his whip. The young teacher, chaperoning the 
party, remarked she thought a complaint should be 
made. It wasn’t safe to have such creatures stopping 
almost within school bounds. 

“Light-fingered bunch, those Mexican gypsies,” he 
agreed. “Make off with most anything, — barring a red- 
hot stove. Getting water from our irrigation-tank, too. 
Ought to be reported. . . 

Late in arriving at the Mission, the party, — being 
delayed by Miss Schmidt’s petulant inability to endure 
a trot and her terrified aversion to a canter, — took a 
short cut home, turning into the lane that ran back of 
the school farm. 

“Who’s that?” one of the girls exclaimed. 

It was Lisa seated on the low stone wall that skirted 
the walnut grove. She was not alone. . . . 

At the sound of the approaching cavalcade, the dark 
gracile figure of a young gypsy detached itself from the 
shadows, sprang catlike over the wall and vanished 
among the trees. . . . 

“No earthly use to question her,” Miss Kinglake, the 
principal, decided. “She has never proved herself 
truthful and would simply deny the whole thing. I’ll 
telephone to Corona in the morning and have them 
moved on.” 

That night the hayricks burned. It was only a for- 
tunate shift of wind that saved the stables. There could 


MEN’S EYES AND A MIRROR 


79 


be no question of the origin of the fire; one of the 
grooms having caught and wrestled with a gypsy youth, 
— a slim, dark fellow, — who twisted from his grip and 
escaped into the lane. 

The worst feature of the case developed when old 
Queenie the watchful mastiff bitch, who should have 
given the alarm, was found shut up in a disused out- 
house ; and a faintly scented handkerchief, initialed L. C. 
(a surname having been decreed essential to the school 
records, Cortwright had good-naturedly permitted the 
use of his own), was picked up only a foot or two from 
the stable door. Further evidence in a bottle of scent 
on Lisa’s dressing-table, similar to that used on the 
handkerchief, clinched matters. Adjustment was impos- 
sible. Lisa must go. . . . 

Philip, shocked out of his complacency, cabled in- 
structions that she be sent to San Miguel to stay with 
the old village couple he had left in charge of the studio. 
He himself would take passage on the first boat home. 
He was indignantly determined to call for a reckoning. 
The girl showed neither appreciation nor responsibility 
toward him. Why should he be further bothered with 
her? She must be set in the way to make her own 
living. 

The pungent scent of the eucalyptus, the breezy ozone 
from the kelp-strewn shore, gave promise of a San 
Miguel that had suffered no sea change. . . . The post- 
office, where Cortwright stopped for his mail, occupied 
its familiar corner in the grocery-store; — bananas and 
hams on one side, a flyspecked case of poisonous-looking 


80 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


cookies on the other. Philip was sure he remembered 
those cookies ! But Progress is a jade hard to be denied. 
Bar jour own stable against her ; — ten to one she finds 
shelter in some neighbor’s garage. . . . An auto-stage 
had succeeded the postman’s striped umbrella and 
shaggy pony. You now read the morning’s news the 
evening of the day it was printed. Back of what used 
to be the drug-store, a Japanese tea-garden invited with 
little round tables and a soda-fountain where one might 
drink root-beer. That was why it was called a “tea- 
garden,” Philip supposed, — till he noticed the paper 
lanterns hanging above the tables. A few doors further 
along an artists’ supply-shop had opened up and shut 
down again; one of poor Smalley’s unsalable seascapes 
in the window. 

Little short of a miracle, the way the fellow hung on ! 
His was one of the few familiar faces in the group gath- 
ered to watch the stage draw up before the hoary old 
rambling-verandahed frame hotel. Philip waited for 
no greeting. Even the poulticing years of absence 
couldn’t make him believe he was glad, to see Smalley 
again. . . . 

Along the gray road running up from the sea, the 
shadows were the shadows of the past; until, in front 
of Brentwood’s bungalow, three girls and a weedy look- 
ing youth playing a set of tennis gave him the queer 
feeling that “nobody was home. . . At the postoffice 
they had told him the place was leased to a Mrs. South- 
wick, an art teacher from Los Angeles, who conducted 
summer classes there. The old Griffeth cottage was 
also occupied. Tea-things were set out on a table 


MEN’S EYES AND A MIRROR 


81 


among the cedars. Down the path a little girl in a 
blue dress came running, shrieking with a high, shrill, 
breathless insistence that could legitimately be expected 
only of a steam-calliope. Other little girls, also in blue, 
also shrieking, emptied themselves through the open 
door upon the porch, — shabby and paintless as ever. It 
gave Philip a sharp, unlooked-for stab to pass by. 
. . . The pull up the cliff in the old days had been 
broken here. 

He never let himself go so far as to admit that he 
had been in love with Katheryn. Yet there was always 
the question, — what would it have meant had he allowed 
himself to love her? She had had the power to sway 
him, to dominate his emotions. She had even had the 
power to waken in him a disturbing sense of self-dissatis- 
faction. The girl radiated force; — a splendid truth 
and courage beyond that of other women. To Philip 
the memory of her was as the memory of a mountain 
path; — a path he had deliberately turned aside from 
as too steep, too adventurous. ... Yet a path that 
might have led him ... to the Heights ! 

An impatient shake of the shoulders. That was what 
it meant, — to come back. ... An artist who tied him- 
self up was a fool. Marriage implied impedimenta of 
one sort or another. . . . 

He thought of Robert Marty n as he had met him 
in New York, — played-out, disillusionized, — already a 
“has-been,” so far as any real artistic achievement was 
concerned. It had been an actual shock to Philip to 
meet Martyn again. . . . There couldn’t be more than 
a few years’ difference in their ages ; at least, that was 


82 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


what he used to suppose. . . . He wouldn’t like any- 
body to suggest it now ! They had lunched together, — 
mutually ignoring past misunderstandings, — spent an 
agreeable half hour smoking and talking over old times. 
But in Robert there was no spring left, no glint of 
keenness, — till he spoke of Michael: — 

Would Philip come that evening to hear Michael 
play? The boy had returned from Germany, — was mak- 
ing something of a name for himself. Poor Martyn 
produced press-notices from his pocketbook. . . . Once 
started on that theme he could have gone on intermi- 
nably. But Philip had other engagements. . . . 

Where a jutting ledge of rock shelved to a flight of 
rickety wooden steps leading down to the sands he 
paused. ... It was at the foot of these steps he had 
said his real good-bye to Katheryn Griff eth. ... It was 
up these steps, — on an afternoon very like the present, 
— he had first carried Lisa; — drenched, clutching, pa- 
thetic, a half-drowned, homeless kitten, wrapped in his 
old gray sweater. There was bad blood in the girl ! All 
he had done for her since. . . . An angry determina- 
tion to make her understand she had had her chance, — 
that he would no longer be responsible for her vagaries, 
hurried him on to the studio. 

He found the old woman alone, much flustered at his 
unexpected arrival. Her husband was fishing at the 
cove. Miss Lisa . . . ? An expressive shrug. How 
should she know? Off in the morning, — wandering all 
day like a wild thing along the shore. . . . 

There was an evident tendency toward complaint that 
Cortwright ignored. She was not an attractive old 


MEN’S EYES AND A MIRROR 


83 


woman. She screwed her hair back from her face; 
and would have liked to screw right through you with 
her sharp little eyes. 

Philip was hot, tired, vaguely disappointed; though 
in what respect he could not have said. He would 
change to his bathing things and go for a swim. 

A natural athlete, Cortwright excelled in all out- 
door sports. 

This evening the sea was choppy, — a multitude of 
white-crested wavelets hurrying and leaping toward the 
shore. Philip swam out beyond the rocks and found 
himself in a smoother area. The warm lapping water, 
the perfect sense of freedom, of oneness with the ele- 
ments, lured him on. Delicate tints of green, of mauve, 
of citrine, — faint afterglow of sunset, — reflected from 
sky to sea. . . . 

Head up, with sure vigorous strokes, Philip followed 
the flight of a ; small black gull ; one of the species the 
fishermen along that coast call “hell-divers” and kill, 
when they get the chance, as fish-robbers. 

Suddenly the bird poised ; wheeled on slanting wing ; 
and dived. . . . 

For the first time Philip saw he was not alone. Low 
in the water, still some distance ahead of him, floated a 
girl. Quite at her ease she rested there, her hands 
clasped beneath her throat, — so much a part of the 
cradling sea that but a moment before his glance had 
passed over her, — mistaking her half-submerged body 
for a mass of drifting kelp. 

Now, as the bird plunged, she turned. Bare arms 


84 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


flashing, swift and sudden as a fish, she shot past Cort- 
wright. . . . Girl and gull were racing for the shore. 

Not a sign betrayed her consciousness of him; — till 
a mischievous ricochet of rosy heels splashed a blinding 
cascade full in his face! 

He rubbed the water out of his eyes just in time to 
catch her laughing back at him over her shoulder. . . . 

The challenge was not to be ignored. Philip put 
after her. The gull, startled from its low skimming 
flight, took wing. . . . 

It now became a race between the man and the girl. 
He was no swifter than she ; but he was stronger. 

The roughening sea as they neared the rocks retarded 
her. She lost something of her ease of motion, strug- 
gling and battling, — looking back apprehensively. . . . 

A moment more and he would have her ! 

She dived, — disappearing within a huge curling 
breaker. . . . 

Philip, recovering from the lunging snatch he had 
made, stood alone, — waist deep amid a swirl of retreat- 
ing waters. . . . 

Panting, dripping, triumphant, full length on the 
flat-topped rock to which she had crawled, the girl 
laughed down at him. . . . 

It was Lisa! 

Why his heart should have taken a sudden leap like 
a sportive porpoise, Philip didn’t know. . . . He waited 
a moment to make sure nothing very remarkable had 
happened. Then : — 

“You win,” he admitted cheerfully. “Get down off 
that. There’s a big wave coming. . . .” 


MEN’S EYES AND A MIRROR 


85 


Instantly she slid to the wet sands : — 

“I’m tired. That was some race,” she said. 

Her boy’s black bathing-suit emphasized the gleam- 
ing ivory-tint of her slim young limbs. She put up her 
hands to her cap, — releasing a wonderful mass of dark 
hair. ... It fell cloudlike about her. She shook her 
head, — laughing, sprinkling Cortwright with a shower 
of silvery drops. . . . 

He caught his breath sharply between his teeth. . . . 

The Christmas preceding Lisa had sent him her 
photograph : — in school uniform, severe black and white, 
with demurely plaited braids. The schoolgirl scrawl 
across the back of it assured him she was “Very grate- 
fully his. . . .” It was what they had told her to say. 
He had been pleased, gratified. It was all extremely 
creditable; and he had taken pleasure in showing the 
picture about. Yet it had hardly prepared him for this 
afternoon ! 

“I’m sorry you frightened Sylvestre,” was what he 
heard her saying. “Perhaps he will never come back 
any more. . . .” 

“Sylvestre?” 

“My pet gull. . . . Some Portuguese boys at the 
Cove caught him on their line. They were going* to kill 
him. They are very cruel. ... I made them give him 
to me. His wing was broken and I kept him in my cave 
till he could fly again. When I go swimming, he watches 
for me, — and we play together. Perhaps he won’t come 
back, — now that you have frightened him. . . .” 

“Do you know to whom you are talking?” a sudden 
suspicion prompted Philip to ask. 


86 FLOWER OF THE WORLD 

She began to study him then with dark mysterious 
eyes. . . . 

“Why ! . . . It’s Mr. Cortwright. . . ” 

In exchange for her photograph Philip had sent her 
a sketch of himself, taken by a young friend of his, a 
Parisian cartoonist, at work in his smock. Naturally, 
he looked different in a bathing-suit ; nor had he thought 
it necessary to notify her of the exact date of his return. 
Recognition came slowly, and with it a sort of defiant 
doubt. . . . 

“Lisa, if you didn’t know me, why were you so ready 
to race with me?” He tried to keep the amused irrita- 
tion out of his voice. “Didn’t they teach you any better 
than that at school?” 

“I hated them at school !” she answered with an angry 
flash; and lapsed into silence looking down at her bare 
toes. 

Now that she realized it was Cortwright she was 
waiting for him to scold her. The one curt message 
he had sent had left no doubt as to the mood she might 
expect. . . . 

But he did not scold. . . . “Hey ho ! It’s good to 
be home! There’s no place like San Miguel after all 
. . .” he said. “It’s the sea-bathing I’ve missed. We’ll 
swim every day. And you’ll pose for me again, Lisa. 
I feel ten years younger already, — I wonder how I ever 
kept away so long. . . 

By this time, splashing along through the surf, they 
had come to the rocky corner that screened the strip of 
beach in front of Lisa’s cave. She waved him back : — 

“You mustn’t come. This is where I change. . . .” 


MEN’S EYES AND A MIRROR 


87 


“But, child, — that’s hardly safe. . . .” His glance 
took in the rugged bend of coast, — the wild swirl of 
mounting waters. “It would be the easiest thing in the 
world for you to get cut off here. . . . Hurry ! there’s 
no time to waste. . . . When you hear me whistle. . . .” 

Lisa had already disappeared within the cave. Half- 
dressed, on her knees, she was looking at herself in a 
tiny round mirror, — no bigger than a s c allop shell : — 
“I’m pretty ! I’m very pretty !” she whispered. “I can 
see it in their eyes, — more even than in this mirror. 
. . . Sylvestre will do anything I tell him. M^r. Liv- 
sey” (the riding-master at school) “wrote a note and 
tucked it in my saddle. Manuel fought the other boys, 
— to get my gull. . . .” She powdered her nose, — and 
looked again, nodding her head. “Ah ha! He intended 
to scold, — and he didn’t do it. . . . I’ll have to pose. 
But anything I want, — I can get. ... If I manage 
right. . . .” 

Cortwright whistled. She sprang up and ran out 
to him. 


CHAPTER VII 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD SENT WORD FOR LISA TO COME BUT 

it wasn’t POSSIBLE 

L ISA would not let Cortwright send away the old 
couple. 

“I don’t like Mrs. Semple and Mrs. Semple doesn’t 
like me. But she’s better than nobody, — till we can 
get a proper servant,” she said. 

“We don’t need any servant. There isn’t room for 
one.” 

“If I am to keep house for you, I must do it my own 
way.” She was at the little round breakfast-table in 
the great sea window, pouring his coffee. That was 
another of her innovations, that they should breakfast 
together in the studio looking out across the sea — “The 
thing to do is to buy a car and build a garage. . . . 
You can have your servant’s room there. When we are 
not working, we want to enjoy ourselves. One can’t 
enjoy oneself if there are always dishes to be washed!” 

He laughed, amused ; but did not speak at once. Per- 
haps because at that moment he was watching how the 
frill of lace dressing- jacket fell away from the smooth 
young arm, and the golden skin of the orange she was 
peeling for him curled back about the ivory tinted con- 
tour of slim wrist. One of the first things Lisa had 
told him was that she needed: — “Oh, a great many 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD SENT FOR LISA 89 


things !” Evidently, a lace dressing- jacket had been 
one of them. . . . 

By the time Cortwright recollected himself to remark 
he didn’t consider a garage any more necessary than a 
servant, it was too late. Lisa had run for pencil and 
writing- tablet ; and they spent the rest of the morning 
making plans. 

The builders once at work, it was easily demonstrated 
how Lisa’s own little room might be enlarged. “It was 
no bigger than a birdcage!” She wanted a sleeping- 
porch, — and a closet where “one could really hang 
things. . . 

What with the new car, their building projects, their 
regular studio hours, and scarcely less regular after- 
noon swim, June and July slipped past, August was 
upon them before they knew ; and Cortwright had occa- 
sion, hurrying in one evening, to turn on Lisa — holding 
out the newspaper: — “By Heaven! But I am a lucky 
chap !” 

Such was his announcement of the first war news. 
The German invasion of France was on. Many Ameri- 
cans had been caught by it. . . . He had gotten out 
just in the nick of time. . . . 

Again and again, during the early days of that tense 
autumn, Philip congratulated himself. 

“But — haven’t you any friends over there you are 
anxious about?” 

It was a September afternoon. He and Lisa were 
sitting together on a rock after their swim, dabbling 
their toes in the water, amusing themselves with the 
bellicose antics of a couple of crabs. 


90 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


“My dear child, I can’t afford to worry over other 
people’s troubles. It would be bad for my work. Be- 
sides, this won’t be the first time the Germans have 
taken Paris. . . .” 

To Lisa it was all impersonal enough : — “Look ! 
look !” Eyes shining with excitement, she leant far over 
the rocky pool: — “The big one has the little one by 
the leg. . . . Oh, — he’s eating him up ! ” 

In the shifting fortunes of the crab battle the incipi- 
ent discussion was forgotten. Cortwright’s attitude, 
after all, reflected that of a good many Americans at 
that time. ... It was Europe’s quarrel. . . . Always 
insatiable for work, he found this new Lisa even more 
stimulating, more dramatically suggestive, than had 
been the rebellious little dancer of long ago. Again he 
thrilled to feel himself at a crucial point in his career; 
— her beauty, his genius. . . . “Child, child, do you 
realize what you are helping me to create?” 

“I realize I shall be very glad when this pose is fin- 
ished,” she assured him practically. 

The pose was a difficult one. Philip was merciless as 
ever in that respect. His method of domination had 
experienced no essential change. Simply, the bribes 
were on a larger scale: — 

“When we do finish,” he promised now, “I’ll take you 
up to Los Angeles. We’ll have a regular celebration !” 

Lisa had never been to Los Angeles ; though at school 
the other girls were always talking of the shops there, — 
the theatres, the hotels. . . . 

Absorbed as they were, busy every moment with work 
or play, the two kept very much to themselves. Philip 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD SENT FOR LISA 91 


no longer had the feeling that he cared to identify him- 
self with the local coterie. Smalley, the only one of 
the old group left, he had always detested. When the 
little man called, full of reminiscences, an over-empha- 
sized claim to past intimacy, Philip sat on him relent- 
lessly. 

Lisa proved equally aloof. With her it was really 
a deep-rooted shyness, a sensitive dread of snubs, im- 
planted by her unfortunate school experience. 

“Will somebody please be so kind as to explain that 
girl,” one of Mrs. Southwick’s art students demanded 
innocently enough. “I’ve puzzled and puzzled ; but it’s 
beyond me to make her out. She dresses better than 
any* of us. He takes her everywhere in that new car. 
. . . And yet? . . . Is she just his model? — or what?” 

“She’s what , I expect,” answered Smalley, by no 
means innocently. He probably believed it. Anyway, 
Philip had been nasty to him ; and Smalley was not the 
man to ignore that kind of debt. 

Lisa may have felt her position to be equivocal. At 
least, she made no advances. Her only companions, 
apart from Cortwright, were the O’Leary children. 

The O ’Leary s were the new tenants of the old Grif- 
feth cottage. Both father and mother were artists; 
and there were seven little girls. The whole family 
seemed to get on all the better for not being too well 
off. There was a gaiety, an insouciant enthusiasm, 
about everything they did, which came, Mrs. O’Leary 
explained, from “never feeling tied down. . . .” 

Apparently, they did not know what it was to sit 
down to any regular meals : — 


92 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


“Come! Come quick!” the little girls would cry, 
streaming out after Lisa like a flock of twittering blue- 
birds. . . . Their eyes were the same hue as their one- 
piece frocks, — which seemed always cut from the same 
material, after the same pattern, a little shorter or 
longer as the case required: — “Father has baked an 
omelet !” 

Perhaps this was at two o'clock in the afternoon. 
Everybody would collide into everybody else, uproar- 
iously happy, uproariously hungry, — having eaten 
nothing but “cookies” since the night before. . . . 

Mr. O’Leary, shaking the hair out of his eyes like an 
excitable little terrier, flourished the omelet : — “By cats ! 
he had forgotten the salt !” The salt, would be passed 
in a clamshell. . . . 

It came to be, Lisa could not pass the house but the 
bluebirds were after her. She taught them to dance; 
and one night, when the moon hung like a white flower 
over the cliff, they dressed themselves in garlands of 
leaves and eucalyptus-pods and held dryads’ festival 
among the cedars. 

“My dear, you’re just a wonder!” Mrs. O’Leary ex- 
claimed in her exaggerated Irish way. “I’m surprised 
you don’t take it up professionally, — with all this new 
dancing coming in. It’s not so hard to get started on 
the Pacific Coast. Almost any manager would be glad 
to give you an opening, just for your form alone; — if 
you hadn’t a tenth the talent you’ve got. Posing for 
the figure is . . . all right enough, of course. . . . But 
there isn’t any future to it. . . . And then. . . 

“I didn’t use to like posing,” Lisa admitted. “I’ve 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD SENT FOR LISA 93 


grown accustomed to it, I suppose. Mr. Cortwright 
says it’s as creative as any other form of art. ... I 
don’t really believe he would let me go. . . .” The old 
child’s idea was deeply implanted. Philip was still to 
Lisa the natural arbiter of her destinies: — “And he 
gives me, — such pretty things !” 

“She seems as* innocent about it all as our little Nora 
could be,” Mrs. O’Leary referred the matter to her 
husband, “I can’t hardly believe things have gone as 
far as they say. . . 

The mouthpiece of “they” in this instance was Mrs. 
Southwick. She was a well-tailored woman, large, com- 
placent, — with a sound sense of commercial values. As 
“an art-teacher” her position of moral ostracism was 
positive. The O’Learys were newcomers and simple 
enough to be impressed. 

“She’s all right yet, I expect,” O’Leary balanced the 
question. “Though I wouldn’t wish to see one of ours 
in her shoes. Cortwright may marry her. That’s not 
my bet. . . .” He puffed his cheeks, — swelled out his 
little chest. . . . “A man like that. . . . By cats ! It’s 
hands off, of course. . . . But you’ve* got to keep your 
eyes open. . . . Can’t be too careful. Mother of seven 
girls !” 

It had come very gradually to Philip, — the knowl- 
edge that he must have Lisa. To do him justice he had 
struggled against it ; — fought it as he had never before 
fought anything. He was far front being a libertine. 
Up to the present, women had played a very small part 
in his life. He had come nearer caring for Katheryn 


94 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


Griffeth than anybody. But this only made things 
worse. When a man over forty falls violently (and 
most unexpectedly to himself) in love with a girl not 
yet half his age, it is apt to go hard with him. The 
unaccountable depressions and exultations, the fluctua- 
tions and revulsions of a first genuine passion were 
wearing down Cortwright’s resistance. It was not only 
his work that suffered. He could not sleep; he could 
not rest. . . . Like the man in the parable who had 
kept his house swept and garnished, — once the devil did 
break in one would have thought there were seven of 
him. 

Lisa herself appeared quite untouched by the fire she 
had kindled. She had played for power, — and won! 
If she was conscious of a secret sense of triumph, there 
was no outward sign of it. If she was sometimes a little 
frightened, she did not show that either. What she 
had wanted was pretty dresses, luxury, ease. She had 
set herself to get them with a primitive simplicity that 
amounted almost to innocence. To make Philip fall in 
love with her had been half an instinct, half a mischie- 
vous idea. She* had experimented with it with a light- 
hearted daring and gaiety that acted on him like a 
heady wine. . . . 

And there was no escape for him. Day after day he 
breathed in her beauty, till its aroma had come to seem 
to him like the fragrance of. a too sweet flower, — drug- 
ging his senses, poisoning his blood. Things couldn’t 
much longer go* on as they were. After all, he had been 
good to her. What would her life be without his pro- 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD SENT FOR LISA 95 


tection? ... It had always seemed natural to Philip 
that he should have the thing he wanted. . . . 

More than once recently he had tried to make Lisa 
understand what he felt. But she glanced away from 
his suggestions untouched. . . . That was what made 
her power, — the tantalizing, illusive brightness of her, 
— only half tamed, like Sylvestre, the black-winged 
gull. . . . 

One afternoon, when they had been working in the 
studio later than usual, Cortwright came to Lisa to 
adjust her position. A word would have been enough. 
She was wonderfully responsive to suggestion and hated 
to be touched. 

Cortwright took her hand to move it a little, — the 
pose required it lifted and arched above her head. When 
he had corrected her attitude, he did not at once remove 
his hand; but let it run caressingly the length of her 
slender arm and rest for a moment trembling against 
her breast: — 

“Lisa,” he whispered. “Lisa! don’t you care at all 
about making me happy? Oh, Lisa, — you must know 
what I feel. . . 

She sprang from him, angry, terrified. ... “If you 
touch me . . her voice was like the hiss of a snake. 
. . . “If you come near me. . . .” For still he ad- 
vanced with outstretched imploring arms : — “I’ll scream, 
— I’ll call Yoshani” the soft-treading Japanese who 
occupied the new servant’s quarters in the garage. . . . 

With a tremendous effort Cortwright controlled him- 
self. 

“Go and dress,” he said. “We’ll work no more to-day. 


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You’re foolish. There’s nothing- to be frightened about. 
Do you think that I would hurt you?” 

For nearly a week after that Lisa avoided the studio. 
Off, almost with sunrise, she did not return till well 
after dark, when she retired at once to her room. . . . 

Philip had the tact to ignore her absence, — treating 
it as nothing more than one of those periodic fits of 
restlessness he had always had to contend with. Indeed, 
he himself was glad of a respite. It gave him a chance 
to get hold of his nerves, — to readjust his sense of 
values. . . . 

Busying himself in mechanical duties about the studio 
he began to experience anew that intolerable fret of 
the creative faculty checked in mid-career. With one 
of those swift transitions familiar to all imaginative 
workers he now assured himself, whatever else Lisa might 
be, she was for him the model of models! The fevers 
and frustrations of the past few weeks he looked back 
on with a sense of irritated resentment. . . . Before 
anything else he must win back her startled confidence 
and finish his statue. . . . 

Lisa had run out of Cortwright’s studio determined 
she would never enter it again. . . . Never . . . 
never ! So that was the sort of thing people were say- 
ing ! For a long time she had known they were talking 
about her. When she had believed it was only Mrs. 
Southwick’s pupils, she told herself she did not care. 
Mixed with a very genuine envy of these girls, who 
played tennis and called to one another by their first 
names, she felt an equally genuine touch of contempt. 
She despised them for despising her posing. . . . Snobs ! 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD SENT FOR LISA 97 


snobs ! snobs ! — like those other girls who had made her 
so unhappy at school. 

Now, in her bewildered inexperience, for the first time 
it flashed over her just what was the sort of thing people 
did think and say. . . . Even the O’Learys had not 
remained untouched by it. 

After one or two well-meant attempts at warning, 
met by a seemingly persistent evasion (the habit of 
“confidences” was something entirely foreign to Lisa), 
there had been a gradual withdrawal. . . . The blue- 
birds no longer flocked out after her as she passed on 
her way to the beach. Once or twice, meeting Mrs. 
O’Leary in the village, the elder woman did not stop to 
speak. Her smile was uncomfortable, rather than un- 
friendly. . . . Lisa’s resentment flared at the memory 
of it: — 

“She thinks I’m not good enough to speak to,” was 
her interpretation. “Oh, there are some people so good 
. . . they aren’t willing to give anybody else a chance !” 

The storm in her soul drove her along the shore. . . . 
That first day she must have covered twenty miles. . . . 
In the wild delight of feeling herself free again (for the 
first time since Philip’s return from France !) she raced 
with the winds, she shrieked at the gulls, startling 
them to white flight over the flashing whiteness of the 
breakers. ... It was as if she herself had wings. . . . 
When she grew tired of running, she dropped down 
among the sand-dunes. For hours she lay there^ con- 
scious only of the sky, the sea, the sun. . . . The dark 
cloud that all through the night seemed as if it must 
smother her, had lifted from her spirit. . . . Mr. Cort- 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


wright had made things uncomfortable. . . . Very well ! 
Two could play at that game. . . . He could finish his 
statue without her. He should never finish it ! 

But as the days passed and Philip showed no con- 
sciousness of her defection, busying himself about his 
own affairs quite as if nothing had happened, Lisa, began 
to lose coniidence. After all, her work in the studio 
was a part of the very structure of her existence. If 
she did not pose for Cortwright, — what else was there 
she could do ? 

The fourth morning of her self-imposed banishment 
was a morning of mist and chill. . . . The restless 
phase had exhausted itself. She no longer wished to 
wander. . . . There would be a fire in the studio. 
When Mr. Cortwright finished his work, he would ring 
for tea. Lisa pictured herself seated opposite him in 
lazy ease before the driftwood blaze. Later, perhaps, 
he would play his flute. . . . Whatever the changing 
details, the tableau conjured was one of sensuous satis- 
faction, of intimate comfort and companionship. 

Huddled in the mouth of the cave, the gray mist 
shut her in. Try as she would she could not keep from 
shivering. . . . The softness and luxury of her life as 
model had done much to undermine the hardy endurance 
of her open-air childhood. . . . And before that time 
with the gypsies there had been another time ... of 
brightness ... of warmth. 

Lisa’s memories of it flashed and died, — fitful, un- 
substantial, as little to be recorded as the memories of 
dreams. What came to-day was gone to-morrow. 
There was nothing she could put into words except 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD SENT FOR LISA 99 

the one picture : — a little rocking boat, tossed amid a 
welter of black winds and surging waves. . . . Her 
mother’s face, — her mother’s arms. . . . Terror and 
engulfing night. . . . 

Oh, if there was only someone to whom she could 
turn! Never had she needed friendship as she needed 
it now. . . . Having drifted so long, — in the face of a 
crisis she found herself incapable of definite decision. 

Often enough in the old days had Lisa had her fits 
of dissatisfaction, — the secret whisper of the blood 
that pricked against restraint. . . . Always before,, 
these moods had found relief in some flashing vision of 
future happiness and emancipation. Now this morning, 
her chilled heart felt no stir of hope. . . . She wanted 
to be happy! She wanted to be happy so much! Yet 
to struggle was useless. Some unknown force, it seemed 
to her, had thrown her life into Philip’s hands. . . . 
Twenty dollars was what he had paid Mama Sole- 
dad. . . . 

Down went Lisa’s face in her arms. She was as 
helpless then as she felt herself now. . . . Philip had 
always had a cruel advantage. . . . 

“ Hour 

Lisa started to her feet with a little cry of terror. 

Round the ragged bend of coast, like an apparition 
out of the mist, drenched, .clutching, scrambling 
among the slippery rocks, leapt a wild shock-headed 
figure. . . . 

“Sylvestre!” It was so long since she had seen any 
of the gypsies, she had to pull herself together, — dis- 
miss a bewildered sense of unreality that was half com- 


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posed of distaste. . . • “I thought the tide was up. 
. . . How did you make it?” 

He spluttered, shaking the water from eyes and hair 
as a shaggy dog might have done: — 

“Takes more than a wave to knock me out ! Here I 
am, you see. . . . We’re alone, sister?” He shot a 
dark glance of watchful caution toward the cave. 

“Yes; — the children don’t come any more. No one 
else can, — now the tide is up. . . . It’s a long time 
since I’ve seen you, Sylvestre !” 

^‘That’s true.” He threw himself down in the shelter 
of the rocky arch at her feet. From the cliffs above 
the strip of beach would now appear deserted. “These 
parts were hardly healthful to me after. . . .” 

“Sylvestre, I never meant the barns should burn, — 
on account of the horses. The hay was different. . . .” 

“Who’s to stop the winds from blowing, sister?” He 
looked up at her in silence, his restless, glittering eyes 
searching her face. 

Lisa’s own glance dropped. She turned away her 
head and began to play with the sand, sifting it through 
her fingers. . . . Only the moment before she had been 
longing, terribly, for a friend. Now, the old pride 
reasserted itself. . . . This ragged unkempt fellow ! 

When she looked again Sylvestre had his knife out. 
He tossed and caught it with apparent carelessness, 
making the blade glance in the sun: — 

“A good knife, sister. Many a squirrel, thinking 
himself safe hid among the branches has it pinned 
through the heart. . . . Christ’s blood! That’s a fine 
ring on your finger. Fine rings don’t always mean 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD SENT FOR LISA 101 

happiness. ... A man might think himself safe as a 
squirrel. . . 

“No! no, Sylvestre. . . . I’m happy, — truly!” 

Before either could speak again a great wave surging 
in broke almost at their feet. . . . The strip of beach 
was submerged; — the cold gray water crawling and 
splashing to the cave’s mouth. 

“The devil! That was a big one. . . . Do they get 
much higher?” 

“They’re not apt to. . . . Sylvestre, — I’ve been so 
cold! There’s driftwood in that corner, — and I have 
nuts. . . .” 

Not only as certain birds are supposed to do had 
Lisa decorated her nest; like the muskrat she had her 
hidden store. 

From a cranny in the rocks she took a box ; — got out 
sweet chocolate, almonds. . . . 

A fire and a comrade make all the difference in the 
world ! 

Though the gray mist still hung like a curtain in the 
arch of the cavern, the crackle and sparkle of red flame, 
the drifting feather of smoke, transformed the place. 

Sylvestre grinned, cracking the almond shells with 
his strong white teeth. Lisa, curled close as a kitten 
to the warmth, nibbled chocolate. ... It was always 
that way. Her first feeling of shocked recoil on any 
sudden reappearance of the gypsies soon vanished. In 
a little while she was quite one of them, — listening, 
laughing, talking their talk. . . . 

While they were eating a whistle sounded from the 
cliff above. 


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“What’s that?” 

Lisa smiled, shaking her head; — though she divined 
at once that Cortwright, noting the mounting tide from 
his window, had hurried down to find out if she were 
cut off in the cave. . . . Aha! He wasn’t then as in- 
different as he intended her to believe. . . . 

When they finished eating, Sylvestre rolled a ciga- 
rette and sprawled at Lisa’s feet looking up at her. 

How was Mama Soledad? 

Not well. . . . That was why Sylvestre had come. 
“La Vieja ” (they spoke part in Mexican, part in the 
gypsy tongue, Lisa supplying a word now and then in 
English), had had a stroke of some sort, — it had left 
her blind, very restless and feeble. She probably would 
not live the summer out. And she wanted to see 
Lisa. It was of that she spoke always, — calling for 
“la ninita. . . .” “There’s something she wants to tell 
you,” Sylvestre said. “It darkens her mind and lies 
heavy on her heart, — holding her back after she has 
been called. . . .” 

“Where is she, Sylvestre?” 

“On the Island, to be sure. . . .” 

“But — what can I do?” 

“ Hermana , the way is free, — except to caged 
birds. . . .” 

“How long does it take to get to the Island?” 

“Two days down the coast on foot. . . . One day for 
the boat, — if the winds are right. . . 

“How could I go, then?” 

Sylvestre looked at her. . . . The white serge skirt, 
the white shoes, the gay little silk sweater that had not 


HOW MAMA SOLEDAD SENT FOR LISA 103 

been warm enough. . . . He lifted his shoulders, — spat, 
— threw away the butt of his cigarette. . . . 

“They call us vagrants, sister. Because we would 
be free they clap us into jail. There’s nothing too bad, 
it seems, for a gitano to do. . . . We lie, sometimes. 
Pick up that which don’t belong to us, — when there’s 
nobody looking. It’s even said we’d stick a man in the 
back; — which all depends on the circumstances. But 
there’s one thing a Romano doesn’t do. . . . And that 
is, to go back on his tribe, or those who have been good 
to him. . . 

“She sold me, — when I was a little girl. . . .” 

“God’s Mother! That was to get twenty dollars. 
. . . Didn’t she send me back after you? And you 
wouldn’t come?” 

“Sylvestre, I never did believe I’m a gypsy. There 
are things. ...” 

Sylvestre must have remembered the storm that swept 
Lisa to the Island. He was several years her senior. 
What was vague and dim to her, must, naturally, be 
clear enough to him. Yet he would never speak of it, — 
never admit that he recollected. 

She put out her hand, touched his knee, — with some- 
thing almost of pleading: — 

“Sylvestre. ... You know that time. . . . The fire 
. . . and the faces. . . .” 

His own face remained blank. The one science all 
gypsies master is the science of keeping a secret. 

“Very well. But you can see for yourself I can’t go. 
It simply isn’t possible. . . .” 

Her eyes dropped to her hands. Slowly she drew 


104 


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from her finger the emerald ring Sylvestre had com- 
mented on. It was Philip’s last gift: — 

“Here, — take this ring. It’s worth much more than 
the twenty dollars she sold me for. You can sell it and 
buy things to make her comfortable. . . . Be sure and 
don’t gamble away the money. . . .” 

Sylvestre laughed, pocketing the ring. Money was 
always good; though it wasn’t money he’d been sent 
after. . . . 

They talked then of the other gypsies. What news 
of Morelia Demetrio and Secundio Silva? Morelia, it 
seemed, was love-sick for Secundio, — who would have 
none of her. But Sylvestre believed she’d get him in 
the end. Ay, — she was a dark one ! He wouldn’t want 
her after him. . . . 

“Is she pretty ?” Lisa asked. 

Sylvestre rolled a cigarette. “Pretty enough, — when 
there wasn’t anybody else round. . . His glance said 
no one would look at Morelia if Lisa were near. 

Altogether the visit did Lisa good. It wasn’t pos- 
sible she should go back to the gypsies, of course. 
Mama Soledad’s message might be nothing but a ruse. 

. . . But Sylvestre’s eyes had told her all over again 
how pretty she was. Mr. Cortwright was only pretend- 
ing he could get on without her. . . % Let people talk ! 
On an excited little rush the sense of her own power 
returned. 

Next morning she walked into the studio quite as if 
nothing had happened. Without explanation on either 
side the interrupted pose was resumed. . . . 


CHAPTER Vm 


TO THE BIRTH OF A STAR 

C HRISTMAS had come and gone before the new 
figure was finished; a lovely thing, — Lisa on tip- 
toe, her hair blowing cloudlike about her, holding high 
above her head a star. . . . 

Never had Cortwright been so exacting, so difficult 
to satisfy. There was no more love-making. For the 
time being, Lisa existed for him only in relation to his 
art. He was irritable, impatient. Some days exultant, 
full of enthusiasm and ardor; other days utterly 
depressed. . . . Outside, the sea mists continued. A 
prolonged stretch of gloomy weather seemed to cut 
them off from the rest of the world. . . . 

It was the lifted arm that bothered Philip. He 
modeled and remodeled. . . . Took new measurements. 
. . . Nagged at Lisa; — who, whatever her thoughts, 
held stoically to the pose with what at times seemed to 
him almost a touch of hidden mockery. 

At last one day Cortwright’s frayed nerves snapped : 
“Why can’t you suggest something?” he flung at her. 
. . . “You are not an automaton.” 

“It isn’t the arm at all,” she told him. Then, “Look !” 
An almost imperceptible upward tilt of the head pro- 
duced the effect for which he had been striving. . . . 
From that moment the strain, the secret attitude of 
105 


106 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


antagonism, relaxed. . . . They worked together like 
comrades. Though both were quite worn out by the 
time their work was done, it had brought them closer 
together. And the result justified the pains. Philip’s 
triumph knew no bounds. He praised Lisa, his own 
accomplishment; — was lavish of all sorts of commenda- 
tion and prognostications of success. ... As the fin- 
ished figure was to be in bronze, he was now obliged to 
go up to Los Angeles to make arrangements for the 
casting. To Lisa’s wordless but intense satisfaction, it 
appeared he had not forgotten his promise. She was 
to accompany him ! A friend of his, who was spending 
the winter East, had offered the use of his apartment 
at any time. . . . They would go in the car and take 
Yoshan. Philip had never liked driving. 

Impossible to imagine Lisa’s anticipations, as silent, 
beautiful, alert, she preened herself for her first flight. 
After nearly a month of unbroken fog, the sun shone 
forth again. It was under the happiest auspices they 
set out. . . . 

They shopped together. They explored the city. It 
was all carnival to Lisa; — the crowds, the gaily deco- 
rated show-windows, the open-air flower stands . . . 
pigeons, a brass band in the park. . . . Above every- 
thing, the lighted streets at night! Yet for all her 
young enthusiasm, her vibrating response to new and 
untried pleasures, it gratified Philip to see that the girl 
never lost poise. There was a distinctive quality of 
voice and carriage. If she knew when people turned to 
look after her, you would not have guessed that she 
knew. 


TO THE BIRTH OF A STAR 


107 


Among other discoveries, it appeared Lisa had never 
been to the theatre. No, — never! The other girls at 
school had gone, of course; and Lisa, . . . once . . . 
almost. ... As a fitting initiation, Philip decided on 
a box-party at the Alhambra ; where by good luck Rose 
Kelly happened to be booked. He told Lisa he had 
invited a few of his friends to join them; — “just three 
or four really worth while fellows,” she would be inter- 
ested to meet. After the play they were to go on to 
supper at the Victoria. 

For this occasion he himself selected Lisa’s frock; — 
a black tissue shot through with silver. She was to 
dress her hair low ; her only ornament a slender platinum 
crescent set with diamonds, — Cortwright had grown 
lavish in his gifts. This she was to wear on a black 
velvet bandeau on her forehead. The very severity of 
it all made her appear the more virginally young and 
appealing. 

That evening was Revelation to Lisa. It was as if 
some magic juice “on sleeping eyelids laid” had opened 
her vision to a new world. Cortwright had never before 
introduced any of his friends. The four men included 
in the party were, as he had promised, really worth 
while. There was Raycroft, the New York dramatic 
critic ; and Snyder, the London architect, whom Philip 
had first known in Paris. Snyder was a man probably 
sixty-two or three years old, distinguished in his pro- 
fession. The war had caught him in Los Angeles. His 
family had written him not to try to come back; — 
“there was nothing he could do.” Realizing the reason- 
ableness of their attitude, he acquiesced in it; yet any- 


108 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


one could see how he chafed and fretted at enforced 
exile at such a time. The other two were younger; 
Francis Fitzgerald, “the new Irish poet”; and Sam 
Simington, also extremely “new,” whose weird bar-room 
and dance-hall “futurist impressions,” everybody was 
talking about, and no one seemed to have courage to 
buy. Simington confessed himself at the end of his 
tether. He was wondering if it would pay him to run 
down to San Miguel awhile and “paint fish. . . 

Because it had been agreed the party should meet in 
the theatre, and because everybody timed themselves by 
the rising of the curtain, introductions were of the 
briefest. Lisa had little attention for her companions. 
Delighted by the abrupt transition from the early win- 
ter darkness to an atmosphere of color, of glow, of, — 
to her, — almost bewildering novelty, she settled herself 
to watch the late arrivals, the women with their gay 
evening wraps — the hurrying ushers. . . . 

With the last strains of the overture, the mysterious 
darkening of the hushed house, she shivered. For no 
reason she could explain, tears had started in her eyes. 
A low- voiced remark of one of the men in the box be- 
hind her carried no meaning. . . . For her head was 
dizzy as with the ringing of a multitude of little golden 
bells. Thrills kept running up and down her spine, — 
pricking at her toes and fingers. Suddenly, out of the 
cloud-dim past, a Sun had risen ! Whatever it was she 
remembered, whatever it was she divined, on a little 
sigh Lisa’s spirit took wings; — fluttered down like a 
homing bird over the footlights to Fairyland. . . . 

It happened the piece was a romantic comedy, such 


TO THE BIRTH OF A STAR 


109 


as Rose Kelly excelled in ; — brilliantly Oriental in theme 
and setting. The plot dealt with the theft of an in- 
credible diamond, the star jewel in the crown of a 
powerful Arabian prince. A beautiful dance girl, ac- 
cused, flees the palace, and joins herself to a fierce tribe 
of desert robbers. The heir to the crown follows; 
intent not only on recovering the lost jewel, but also 
the runaway maiden. His identity discovered, he is 
made captive. The girl frees him. Together they 
escape. Returning to the palace the pair are again 
apprehended and sentenced to death as traitors. The 
culminating scene in the starlit prison-court, the night 
set for their execution, reached a dramatic climax, — 
where the girl begs to be allowed to dance for the last 
time before her lover. The request is granted and at 
the end of the dance she lays at his feet the lost jewel, 
which, it appears, she had followed the robbers into the 
desert to regain. . . . 

As the curtain shot down and the lights shot up Lisa 
sat on, bright-eyed, rapt, intent. It was all too inti- 
mate, too vital, for her to think of taking any part in 
the applause. 

“Come !” laughed Philip behind her. “Wake up ! We 
are going on to supper. . . 

All through supper at the hotel, the glamour lasted. 
It may have been this that saved her from any sense 
of shyness. And the men did their best to bring her 
out. Unaffected admirers of Cortwright’s work, they 
were intrigued to meet the beautiful young model, so 
intimately and romantically connected with it. Perhaps 
even, there seemed to them something rather touching 


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in the shining, credulous joy of her. . . . The young 
Irishman in particular could hardly take his eyes from 
her face. 

Cortwright was in high feather. He excelled in the 
role of host, — always at his best, his most magnetic. 
The evening was a success. There could be no question 
of the impression Lisa was making. He patted himself 
on the back for it. . . . Now and then he, too, would 
sit back looking at her. . . . 

“By Gad! Remarkable the way Miss Kelly hangs 
on. . . .” It was Raycroft who spoke: — “Sixty, — if 
she’s a day. ...” 

“Please!” 

At this there was a general laugh. 

“It is then actually your first experience of the 
theatre?” He pursued the point with amused interest. 

“I — don’t 1 know. . . .” The ambiguity of the words 
was less even than that of her strangely brightening 
look. . . . 

“But it was perfect? All quite perfect?” Snyder 
smiled across at her. He supposed she had not under- 
stood Raycroft’s question. 

She shook herself out of her vagueness, then. The 
blue fire of the diamonds on her forehead flamed; — 

“To dance! Oh, — to dance like that! It ended too 
soon. . . . What was a jewel to give back? I could 
have danced a star down out of the sky. . . !” 

“And if they told me I had but the one night to live,” 
cried Fitzgerald, all the Celt in him catching fire at her 
fire, — “and gave me but the one wish. . . .” 

Lisa’s laugh rang out. He admired her! They all 


TO THE BIRTH OF A STAR 


111 


admired her! It was the triumph of which she had 
dreamed. . . . “But funerals are so expensive. . . .” 
She sparkled. She glowed. Suddenly she raised her 
arms. Her sleeves slashed and falling away at the 
shoulders gave beautifully the impression of black 
wings. “You think that something to die for? To see 
a star danced down?” 

There were others dancing. Before they realized her 
intention she had risen and was drifting away from 
them. 

People at nearby tables turned. The orchestra 
swung into a new strain. Gradually the other dancers 
dropped out. . . . 

With young delight that marveled at its own daring 
Lisa swept on. The nods and smiles, the ripples of 
applause, the music that seemed to play for her alone, 
produced their own form of intoxication. 

She was thinking: — “If the girls who used to snub 
me could see me now !” 

She was thinking : — “I’m dancing as Rose Kelly 
couldn’t dance. She’s sixty, — and the men knew it. 
I’m not twenty yet, — and I’m beautiful! I’m beau- 
tiful! . . 

Head thrown back, arms aloft, she circled slowly 
down one row of tables and up the other side. Then 
whirled in swift and lovely grace . . . sprang . . . 
appeared to snatch at something . . . and sank laugh- 
ing into her place. 

For a moment, silence. Till the young Irishman 
leapt on his chair, raised high his glass : — 

“To the birth of a star !” he toasted her. . . . 


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After that came the applause, — laughing, clapping, 
the waving of handkerchiefs. . . . 

Was Mr. Cortwright angry? Lisa, bewildered, — half 
frightened now, — stole a look at his face. 

“You must rise,” he whispered. “You must bow and 
smile at them. Don’t try to say anything.” 

Leaving the dining-room that night on Cortwright’s 
arm it seemed to Lisa she was walking into a new world 
under a triumphal arch. ♦ . . 

“Imagination as well as beauty,” was Raycroft’s ver- 
dict, expressed more or less judicially to curtail the 
over-excitable ravings of Fitzgerald. This was after 
the four men had bidden good-night to Lisa and Cort- 
wright, and stood for a moment in front of the hotel 
to watch them whirled away by Yoshan. “Needs train- 
ing, of course. Still, with training, I’m not saying. 
. . . There isn’t any chance, I suppose,” he addressed 
the question to Snyder, who had known Philip longest 
and presumably most intimately, “that Cortwright 
would consider. . . .” 

“ Hm, hardly.” Snyder was no gossip. His chief 
feeling in regard to Smalley, whom he ran into now and 
then when it couldn’t be avoided, was that some day 
somebody would feel obliged to horsewhip the chap. 
“No. I should say not. He’s had her since she was a 
mite of a thing. Bought her from a band of gypsies, 
according to the story. ... Is rather dependent on 
her in his own work, I believe. Seems to be a case of 
hands-off. . . .” 

Fitzgerald snorted. “A gift like that to be sacrificed! 


TO THE BIRTH OF A STAR 


113 


A girl like that. . . . Radiant, radiant being, — of fire 
and dew. . . .” He ground his teeth; — blew with a 
whistling sound through his nostrils. . . . Fortunately, 
they had come to the corner where he and Simington 
would turn. 

“She is one of the most bewitchingly graceful crea- 
tures I have ever seen,” Raycroft conceded, as the two 
elder men walked on. “Had to sit on the tail of Fitz’s 
kite a bit. It’s the way the Irish affect me. . . . By 
Jove! I’ve been racking my brains all evening; but 
I’ll be damned if I can remember who it is she reminds 
me of. . . .” 

“Lisa!” Cortwright’s voice, mingling with the low 
hum of the car, came to her through a rosy mist of 
dreams: — “Lisa, you can’t say ‘no’ to me to-night. 
. . . Don’t you understand, child, that life without love 
isn’t worth the living. ... I love you! I love you! 
For God’s sake, Lisa. . . . I’m like a man starving for 
a drink of water. . . . One kiss, — only one!” 

She did not seem to hear him. Tha triumph of the 
evening was still in her veins like drugged wine. 

“Lisa dearest! You love me a little, don’t you? 
You’ll let me teach you what love means?” 

His arms stole about her. . . . “Haven’t I always 
been good to you? Have you any other friend who 
would do for you what I have done? Only be good to 
me, Lisa . . . and we’ll be happy, — happier than any- 
thing you have ever dreamed! We’ll travel. . . . I’ll 
take you to Hawaii, — to Japan. . . .” 

It was not the first time he had promised this ; but 


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for the first time the words carried a distinct meaning 
to Lisa. . . . To step into his world; — to be accepted 
by his friends. . . . The swift motion of the car, the 
silent streets through which they were passing seemed 
all a part of the night’s enchantment. ... 

“Lisa, — pretty bird. . . . How your heart beats. 

99 

His own beat hot against it. . . . 

Perhaps what he said about love — was true. . . . 
And, oh ! she did want to be happy ; — she wanted to be 
happy so much ! 


CHAPTER IX 


IN APRIL WEATHER 

I T was a windy morning toward the end of April that 
Cortwright looked up from the paper he was read- 
ing with an exclamation of regret: — 

“Poor chap ! Can’t say I’m surprised. . . 

Lisa, standing in the wide sea-window, spoke with- 
out turning her head: — “What is it?” The tone was 
listless, almost indifferent. 

“Martyn, — Robert Martyn. Died of heart failure 
after pneumonia in New York. . . . Been working too 
hard, I expect. That woman was without pity. . . . 
Seemed all fagged out a year ago when I saw him. 
Here’s something about your old friend. ... You re- 
member Michael?” 

“Michael? Oh, yes!” Lisa turned. “I would like 
to see Michael again. . . 

“Well, — this sounds as if you would soon have the 
chance.” He read : — 

“ ‘if/r. Martyn was fifty-two years old. While he had 
been seriously ill for some weeks , death came unex- 
pectedly. The painter's wife and only son were at the 
bedside. . . .’ 

“Then follows the usual obituary tribute, — which I’ll 
skip. He left nothing that counts. . . . Brilliant fel- 
115 


116 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


low, — ‘lost on the reefs of matrimony,’ would be the 
suitable epitaph. And here we come to Michael : — 

“ ‘In a statement issued this evening by J. G. 
McGruder , the young violinist’s manager , it is said the 
death of the elder artist will not interfere with the 
Western trip of the son . Young Mr. Martyn wiU leave 
for the Pacific Coast , as per schedule, early next week; 
arriving in Los Angeles m time to keep his opening 
engagement at Corona Beach , May U+th. Contrary to 
custom, Mr. Martyn makes a clean skip from East to 
West, deferring till the return itinerary the series of 
recitals he plans to give in all cities of any size between 
here and New York. Though having studied many 
years in Germany, it is said to be owing to the affection 
he feels for the Pacific Coast, where as a child he began 
his violin career under the guidance of his father , that 
to Corona is awarded the honor of his Western debut. 
While only twenty-four years old, Michael Martyn has 
obtained much success in the musical field and is her- 
alded as one of America’s future violin virtuosos. The 
series of recitals given by him in New York and other 
Eastern points during the last two winters have sig- 
nalled him out as one of the most remarkable inter- 
preters of the so-called ‘ modem music .* It is said Mrs. 
Martyn will join her son later at Corona. . . . The 
proceeds of the Corona Concert go to the Committee 
for Men Blinded in Battle.’ 

“That’s something new. . . .” Cortwright clutched 
his pockets, laughed. . . . “They get you at every 
turn, these days ! Incidentally, rather a neat little trick 
of advertising. . . . I’m not suggesting he isn’t sin- 


IN APRIL WEATHER 117 

cere. May 14th . . . We’ll be able to run over in the 
car. . . .”. 

“I — don’t want to go. . . Lisa turned again to 
the window. 

“Don’t want to go?” Cortwright got up and crossed 
to her. “I thought you said you did. . . . What’s the 
matter, child? You’re not yourself this morning. Has 
anything happened to disturb you?” 

“No, — oh no!” She shot him a swift glance and he 
saw with surprise that her eyes were full of tears. . . . 

“Lisa, — what is it? Tell me. . . .” 

“The spring, — perhaps. . . .” she said. Her lips 
quivered. “I didn’t sleep last night. . . . Don't bother, 
— please. I’ll be all right, — if I go for a walk. . . 

Philip turned to get his hat. 

“No, — no! I don’t want you. . . .” Her clouded 
expression gave way to a flash of intense irritation. 
“I am going by myself!” 

“Very well.” He drew back flushing. Then on an 
impulse he instantly regretted: — “You’re not planning 
to meet Fitzgerald?” 

Lisa threw up her head. A quivering flame of hurt, 
anger, shame, burned from throat to brow: — 

“Planning to meet Mr. Fitzgerald! How like you! 
. . . Has anything happened to disturb Lisa,” she 
mocked. “Oh, no ! Lisa, must be gay. . . . She must 
be charming, — ready to work or play whenever you are 
ready! She must account to you for every whim and 
mood. She must not go out by herself, — for fear of 
meeting . . . Mr. Fitzgerald !” She stamped her foot. 

“He’s dead in love with you,” Cortwright persisted, 


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stubbornly. “You know it as well as I. He can hardly 
take his eyes off your face. . . • What else was there 
to bring him to San Miguel ?” 

“Love! That’s what men talk about. ... You 
promised to teach me what it means. ... I know now ! 
It means, — possession! I hate it all. ... I hate my- 
self. ...” A little sob that she gulped and swallowed. 
“Oh!” On a rapid gesture of revolt, of denial, with 
both hands she seemed to push him from her: — 

“It’s spring! The gulls have wings, — and the winds 
are free. ... You think I belong to you! I don’t. 
. . . I won’t. . . . Why couldn’t you have left me to 
drown that day you took me from the sea? I wish, — 
I don’t know what I wish! . . .” She turned and ran 
from the room. 

Cortwright did not try to stop her. The mood would 
pass as other moods had passed. He stepped to the 
window and watched her skimming down the cliff, — her 
motions swift and sure as some low-sweeping swallow. 

Lisa herself would have found it hard to account for 
her sudden outburst against Philip. When he had first 
spoken of Michael’s coming to San Miguel she had felt 
a flash of pleasure; instantly followed by the thought 
— what pleasure could there be for her in* such a meet- 
ing now? . . . 

With the passing of the years those childish days 
with Michael had come to seem to Lisa like some tender, 
delicately cherished dream. . . . What a world of rain- 
bow happiness theirs had been! Beautiful in sunshine, 
beautiful in storm. . . . How they had laughed and 
shouted to one another racing over the wet sands ! 


IN APRIL WEATHER 


119 


There were no such seashells nowadays as the shells 
they used to find. . . . Dimly through the mists of the 
past, she saw Michael’s boy’s eyes looking at her, — 
sweet and blue as flowers. . . . Once, she remembered, 
he had made her a necklace of seaweed. . . . 

Lisa shook herself. Sat up. . . . The ripples danced 
and the sun shone. White wings of gulls flashed and 
wheeled against the blue. . . . She pressed her hands 
against her breast, — surprised that her heart should 
lie heavy there . . . like a stone. Was it really the 
coming of the spring that made her fret so against 
Philip’s possessive exigencies? 

A week ago she had been ready to laugh at his 
jealousy of Fitzgerald, just as she laughed at Fitz- 
gerald’s obvious infatuation for herself. Early in 
March, Sam Simington, despairing of converting a 
benighted public to any practical form of approval of 
his bar-room fantasies, had carried out his threat to 
come down to San Miguel and “paint fish. . . Fitz- 
gerald promptly followed. The two young men were 
putting up at the hotel. Cortwright, cordial enough 
at first* had soon grown restless. Lisa, never able to 
resist an opportunity to tease, found a certain amuse- 
ment in the situation. . . . 

But not this morning. Flat on the stretch of sunny 
beach, the warm wind beating over her, she wished . . . 
she had never gone up to Los Angeles to that theatre 
party which at the time had seemed to her so wonder- 
ful ! She wished she was a little girl again, hiding with 
Michael in their secret cave. . . . 

What had become of all Philip’s fine promises? — of 


120 


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travel, — of a new, wonderful, unguessed happiness? On 
the surface, since their return to the studio, they had 
taken up their life very much where they had dropped 
it. Only that morning, quite without preface, quite as 
if it were a matter of course, Philip had said : — 

“I shall want to make a sketch after breakfast. . . . 
I’ve a new idea. . . . Something rather ripping, it 
seems to me.” 

Then he had absorbed himself in his newspaper, and 
Lisa had turned to the window to stand looking out at 
the shimmer of the wind’s invisible feet, dancing, danc- 
ing, as her own spirit longed to dance, far over the 
sunlit stretches of the sea. . . . Suddenly she had felt 
herself blushing to the very roots of her hair. She had 
never felt that way about posing for Philip before. 
. . . It was a moment later that he read the notice 
about Michael, — and she to his obvious bewilderment 
had flared out at him. . . . 

It was because Lisa could not make up her mind till 
the last moment whether or not she really did want to 
hear Michael play, that the seats they got were so far 
forward. By the time Cortwright wrote for tickets 
every place was engaged. It was only by chance and 
at a price over which he winced that the management 
finally was able to offer him two seats in the second 
row off the main aisle. Apart from people’s desire to 
hear Michael Martyn, war charities, since the sinking 
of the Lusitania, had boomed. . . . 

Philip did not try to hide his annoyance. “I told 
you what would happen. . . . Nothing so expensive as 


IN APRIL WEATHER 


121 


a woman’s whims !” It was part of his sense of pos- 
session that he permitted himself to scold her. 

She looked at him ; but said nothing. She was trying 
very hard to control herself these days. Her new 
thought was: — “Perhaps even yet, if I manage right, 
he will marry me. . . . People will be quick enough 
then to forget there was anything wrong.” 

The concert was to be held in the Buena Vista hotel, 
— an old time hostelry that had been several times 
remodeled. The building was of wood, in Mission style, 
with cloisters and a central patio. It was the fascina- 
tion of the old Spanish gardens dipping to the sea that 
had kept up the prestige of the place. 

They took the elevator to the roof, which, in process 
of reconstruction, had been glazed in; and was used 
interchangeably as a ball-room or informal auditorium 
according to circumstances. Already there was a 
crowd: — people standing back against the walls and 
blocking the outside corridors. It was exactly half- 
past eight when Lisa and Cortwright slipped into their 
places. . . . 

A rustle among the audience. A ripple of polite 
applause. Michael Martyn and his accompanist, enter- 
ing by a small side door, crossed to the front of the 
platform, bowed right and left. . . . The accompanist 
then returned to the piano. The violinist stood for a 
moment alone. 

Lisa leaned forward watching. Was it really Michael, 
— this slender, delicate young fellow, with the easy, aris- 
tocratic carriage and the fine-featured dreamy face? 
There was something singularly attractive in the way 


122 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


he stood. . . . His blue gaze that had almost the sweet 
earnestness of a girl’s (though this effect might be in 
part attributable to the long dark lashes) sweeping 
the sea of faces raised to his. . . . She might have 
guessed he would be like that ! 

“I am going to ask you to close your eyes; and I 
will close mine.” 

The request came as a surprise to everybody. 

“You now hear my voice; but you cannot see me. 
You may reach out your hand and by touching your 
neighbor feel that you are not alone. We know that 
this room is bright with lights and with the faces of 
beautiful women. Such knowledge without participa- 
tion is nothing but longing. . . .” 

The charming inflection, the perfect enunciation, 
clear-cut, decisive, yet without emphasis, carried the 
words with complete distinction: — 

“Ladies and gentlemen, — open your eyes again ! For 
us, the shadow of this war shall pass. For the Allied 
soldiers, blinded in battle, to whom the box receipts of 
this concert go, it is forever. What can pay a man 
for the loss of heaven’s light?” 

An instant’s silence like suspended breathing (al- 
ready we are beginning to forget the dynamic emotion- 
alism of that tense, expectant spring), and the concert 
had begun. . . . 

For the first two numbers Lisa sat as in a trance. 
Always acutely responsive to music, the power, the 
grace, the passion, of those magic strings seemed to 
lift her up, to wrap her away, from everything she had 
ever known or thought or felt. It was as if in a dream 


IN APRIL WEATHER 


123 


she had been carried into another world, where nothing 
could exist but that which was pure and beautiful and 
good, — like Michael’s voice, like the words he had 
spoken. . . . The music flowed on ; — a sweet and cleans- 
ing stream it purged Lisa’s heart. . . . 

Again she shut her eyes, — this time to hide the start- 
ing tears. What was the use of living, — if you couldn’t 
be happy and good! Suddenly she felt herself shaken 
by a tragic tremulous wish that something might happen 
so that she could die that night, — her spirit washed 
clean by the joy and wonder of Michael’s playing. . . . 

“Shall we go back and meet him afterwards?” Cort- 
wright asked. 

“No. . . . Oh, no !” Her answer was almost a gasp 
of pain. 

The audience was applauding insistently for an en- 
core. Lisa could not clap. She could scarcely breathe. 
But if the music did not begin again, she felt that she 
would cry aloud. . . . Hardly conscious of what she 
did she found herself standing, — her hands pressed 
against her breast, looking up at Michael with dark 
imploring eyes. . . . 

“Sit down!” Whatever else Philip might have in- 
tended to say was lost. 

Michael had begun to play once more. Just for a 
moment his glance had rested in Lisa’s. Then with a 
charming bow and smile he bent his cheek to his instru- 
ment. . . . 

A whisper and stir of melody, — lost notes that seemed 
to quiver through a mist of suffering. ... A sudden 
stabbing cry; followed by swelling chords of strength. 


124 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


of courage. ... A quickening measure thrilling to un- 
hoped gladness. . . . The conquering choral echo of 
faith triumphant over pain. . . . 

Still and intent, men and women followed the flying 
bow, the white flash of wonder- weaving fingers. Unac- 
companied, as occasionally happened with a sympathetic 
audience, Michael was improvising. . . . 

An acrid smell of smoke. . . . The young man at the 
piano sprang to his feet. . . . From a wall-closet just 
back of him shot out a slender tongue of flame. . . . 

“Fire! Fire!” 

Somewhere near the back of the room the hoarse cry 
rose. 

The smell of smoke grew stronger. ... A faint 
crackling as of burning wood. ... A rustle and rush 
of terror. . . . 

The panic which followed must have been largely due 
to the fact that people felt themselves in a trap, — 
penned on the roof of the hotel. Chairs were overturned. 
. . . Women screamed. ... A senseless surging mob, 
those who had been sitting a moment before, rapt, lifted 
out of themselves, fought and struggled in the exits. 

Lisa saw Michael step to the edge of the platform : — 

“It’s nothing.” His clear cool tones sought to domi- 
nate the riot. “We’ll have it out in a minute. There’s 
no danger. . . .” 

The next thing she knew was a blow on the head. 
Some maddened fool had struck her down, — would have 
trampled her had not Philip caught her in his arms. 
In the jam and crush that followed she lost conscious- 
ness. . . . 


IN APRIL WEATHER 


125 


When she came to herself she was in the hotel gardens. 
The fire was already out. No one had been much hurt. 
A few women had fainted. The only serious accident 
was to the young violinist. He had burned his hands 
rather badly attempting to put out the blaze by smother- 
ing it with his coat. Hotel employees, arriving 
promptly with chemical extinguishers, finished it. . . . 
A matter of crossed wires; — people could be thankful 
for a narrow escape. A doctor was dressing Mr. Mar- 
tyn’s burns. They were painful rather than critical. 
The worst feature of the case was it would probably 
be several months before he could play again. . . . 


CHAPTER X 


HOW MICHAEL FINDS THE SLEEPING BEAUTY AND WAKENS 
HER FROM A BAD DREAM 

T HE week following the concert Cortwright received 
a letter from his New York agents, Lyons and 
Livermore (old friends and associates of his father), 
to whose Fifth Avenue gallery “Clouds and Star” had 
been dispatched immediately on completion. 

The new work was attracting most favorable atten- 
tion. Indeed, it could l^ave been sold twice over, the 
morning of the private view, old Peter Lyons wrote, 
had not he and his partner held back. They hoped 
Philip would approve their course. John Madison was 
in town. Three times had he been in, to stand, silently 
appraising, before the thing, — hands clasped behind 
him, heavy brow lowered. Philip would understand 
there was no possible pressure to be brought, no hope 
of influencing the old man’s slow decision. But it was 
an opportunity that would hardly occur again. If he 
felt it wise to make a flying trip? . . . His arrival in 
New York at this time would appear perfectly natural ; 
and there was a bare possibility “personal equation 
might help tip the scales.” In which event, there could 
be little question that “Clouds and Star” would shortly 
take its place in the Madison collection at the Metro- 
politan. . . . 


126 


MICHAEL FINDS THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 127 


Philip’s face lighted as he read. 

“I’ll have to go to New York, Lisa. . . .” He sprang 
up, tossed the letter to her across the table. “It’s the 
chance of a life-time ! A man would be a fool to ignore 

it. . . .” 

“Oh !” She read and started up in her turn. “How 
exciting! When do we go?” Her present mood would 
have welcomed any change. 

“My dear, — can’t you see? It’s not possible, — this 
trip. I’m sorry, of course. . . He put out his hand 
to draw her to him; but she turned away with an air 
of proud indifference. 

“Lisa, — surely you understand!” He followed her 
across the room ; with two fingers lifted her chin, turn- 
ing her averted face that he might look down into it. 
“I thought you had more common-sense. Can’t you see 
what an opportunity like this means? Whims — whims 
— whims. ... I hardly know you any more, Lisa.” 

“No ! I hardly know myself. . . .” 

Philip, anxious to avoid anything unpleasant, an- 
swered at random. “What did she want him to bring 
her from New York? Wasn’t it something her loveliness 
should live on? — giving joy to people yet unborn. . . . 
Perhaps a hundred years from now someone would 
stand before the image of that young girl with the 
blown hair and the high held star. ...” A jaunty 
spring in his step, he left the room to give orders to 
Yoshan. Truth to tell, he found himself looking for- 
ward to the trip almost in the light of a holiday. 

It wasn’t that he wasn’t still sincerely attached to 
Lisa. Apart from his infatuation for her beauty, there 


128 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


was a touch of real tenderness, a sentimental apprecia- 
tion of his own conduct, — past and to come. He had 
every intention of taking care of her, — always. . . . 
Philip told himself approvingly hardly one man in ten 
would take the responsibility as seriously as he took it. 
Why, the devil, then, couldn’t she show a little more 
responsiveness, — a little more appreciation? 

He honestly considered he was being very »amiable and 
forbearing. If there was one thing he detested it was 
being made uncomfortable; and Lisa’s companionship 
the last week or two. had not been conducive to comfort. 
Her obvious efforts at gaiety, alternating with lapses 
into moody spells of silence; above all the deep brood- 
ing gaze of those dark eyes he had surprised more 
than once fixed upon him, were beginning to worry 
Philip. 

He had never had any intention of marrying Lisa. 
Certainly, he did not intend it now. He was anything 
but a weak man. Passion had forced him into a situa- 
tion he regarded as quite as detrimental to himself as 
it could be to her, — considering their relative prospects 
and social positions. Philip was intensely conventional. 
What people said and thought had always been a matter 
of the utmost importance to him. He did not feel he 
could give Lisa up, — yet. She was essential to him, — 
both in his art and in his emotional life. . . . Try as 
he would, he could not free himself from her spell. 
Fortunately, at San Miguel he considered they were 
more or less buried. There was nobody much to talk, 
— except Smalley. And who ever paid any serious 
attention to Smalley’s gossip? Mrs. Southwick and 


MICHAEL FINDS THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 129 


the O’Learys he also discounted. Their approval could 
be regarded as of little more than local importance. 

Philip coolly realized that with time the situation 
was bound to adjust itself. . . . Meanwhile it was with 
an actual feeling* of holiday he packed and made his 
arrangements. Yoshan should be given a vacation. 
The old couple who had before taken care of the studio 
would stay with Lisa, till Philip’s return. Mrs. Semple 
with her sharp little eyes, her scanty screwed-up hair, 
might not be an ideal companion from a young girl’s 
point of view. In the role of duenna she fitted in with 
Cortwright’s plans very well. It gave an added sense 
of satisfaction that Simington and Fitzgerald should 
have gone on again. Simington because, according to 
his own confession, he had found there was “nothing 
chromatic about a fish but its scales; — ” Fitzgerald 
in a fit of pique over Lisa’s heartless mockery. . . . 

These matters promptly and efficiently arranged for, 
Philip was ready to leave on the noon stage. A recent 
shift in the schedules brought two mails now, — morning 
as well as afternoon. . . . 

“Good-bye. ... Be a good girl.” He kissed her 
almost lightly. . . . “Now the other cheek.” 

She submitted rather than in any way responded to 
his caress. 

“Lisa! What a downcast look. . . . Haven’t you 
a smile for me to carry away with me?” 

Instantly he was sorry he had teased; for with a 
dash of the old passionate spirit she turned on him: — 

“You are a wicked, wicked man!” she cried. 

“Lisa! Is this to be our farewell?” 


130 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


Half repentant she lifted her face again: — “I don’t 
know what’s the matter with me. . . . Perhaps when 
you come back. . . 

Yet that very afternoon it came to Lisa with an 
overwhelming rush that she would never resume the old 
relations, — never! never ! She had been walking bare- 
foot along the wet sands. She scarcely knew she had 
been thinking at all. . . . The mood in which she had set 
out had been one of restless resentment. Philip ought 
to have taken her to New York! All that talk about 
traveling together, — about meeting his friends, — had 
been nothing but pretense ... a trap to catch and 
hold her. . . . Bitterest of all was the knowledge that 
she, Lisa, always so cautious, so distrustful, so afraid 
that someone would try “to cheat” her, — had let herself 
get caught! Her lips trembled and slightly parted. 
She ground her little white pointed teeth, as a snared 
squirrel might have done. . . . 

Gradually her anger ebbed. Alone with sea and sky 
she found herself breathing deep, — filling her lungs with 
long revivifying drafts of the keen salt air. She re- 
moved her hat that the wind might blow her hair about. 
Now and then she dabbled her toes in the waves, — 
skipped, — took a little dancing step. . . . 

He would not be there when she got back at night! 
He would not be there in the morning! She began to 
sing under her breath. . . . 

Coming to a friendly brown rock about which white 
frothed ripples splashed, she ran out, scrambled up on 
it, — holding her skirts close, huddling her knees to her 


MICHAEL FINDS THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 131 


chin. . . . The sea was blue and calm that afternoon. 
. . . The sky without a cloud. . . . 

Did she belong to Philip, — or did she belong to her- 
self? She was twenty years old, perhaps. . . . There 
was a long stretch of life ahead. . . . She had made a 
mistake ... a terrible mistake! But it wasn’t a mis- 
take that need ruin everything. . . . 

If she could only get away from San Miguel ! People 
talked about her dancing. . . . Even Mr. Raycroft, 
who had seen all the famous dancers, showed plainly 
enough what he thought. . . . 

Ever since that glamorous moment in the theatre, — 
the throb of the pulses, the flash of the nerves, that had 
proclaimed : — “This, — this is the lost thing I have 
found,” Lisa had remained consistently conscious of 
a nostalgic sense of affinity between her own life and 
the life of the stage. It was inevitable that with the 
fading of that first illuminative impulse, the sense of 
oneness, of belonging, should be attributed by her to 
the future, — rather than to anything in the past. . . . 
Other girls no prettier than she, no more talented, had 
succeeded. . . . She recalled how Mrs. O’Leary had 
once said any manager would be glad to give her a 
chance. . . . 

Well, then? 

The footlights, the music, the conductor’s baton, 
should all be hers, hers, hers! Huddled there on her 
rocky gulls’ perch, all the sleeping talent in her wakened 
and danced to an imaginary house rocking to wild 
applause ! 

She wondered that she should ever have felt so help- 


132 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


less, so incapable of extricating herself. It was Philip. 
He had always had the power to make her feel like 
that. Courage was what one needed. . . . 

Wasn’t that the message of Michael’s music? 

Her thoughts flew back to the night of the concert : — 
how almost without conscious volition she had risen in 
her place and cried out to Michael to help her. Without 
words she had cried to him. In a whole hallful none 
other had heard. But he had heard and answered; 
though he did not recognize her for the little Lisa whom 
years ago he had promised to take care of always. . . . 

Michael was still at the Buena Vista. Lisa had been 
reading about him in the paper, — only the day before. 
He would be the very person to advise her, — to get her 
proper stage introductions ! 

But suddenly Lisa knew she would not go to 
Michael. . . . 

Chilled, cramped, drabbled, she got up from the rock 
and walked home, — rather wearily. . . . 

Many days after this Lisa spent on the sands dream- 
ing about her future. Rather pathetic the dreams 
were — a mixture of childish ignorance and innocent 
vanity; — full of blind evasions, of impossible imagina- 
tive triumphs. She was too inexperienced to fill in 
practical details. There was only one definite point 
from which everything started. She must get away 
before Philip came home. Lisa realized Philip’s power 
over her well enough to know that if she did not go 
before he came, she would not go at all. . . . 

Yet day after day slipped by with nothing done. The 


MICHAEL FINDS THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 133 


very touch of untamed wildness in her spirit was what 
caused Lisa to be timid. It was partly her timidity, 
partly her pride, that made her what people called 
deceitful. There was only one thing of which she had 
never been afraid. Strangely enough, that was the 
sea. The sea had taken her mother. She herself knew 
what it was to be snatched at, choked and strangled 
amid a wild swirl of hungry waters. 

Yet on the hot white sands, the winds beating over 
her, Lisa found it easy to wish forgetfulness might have 
come that way. . . . Life with its problems oppressed. 
. . . Her limbs were leaden. There was no energy in 
her to carry out the projects her mind formed. She 
could not account for her lassitude, her lack of reso- 
lution. Finally, she decided she must be ill. The day 
came when she made up her mind to go down to the 
village and consult the doctor. 

He was the same doctor who had taken care of her 
when she had had the fever as a little girl : — an old man 
now. One of the first questions he asked her was if 
she and Mr. Cortwright were married. . . . Lisa left 
his office, white, shaken, almost senseless with the horror 
of the thing that had happened. . . . 

The doctor did not suspect the full force of the blow. 
For she had controlled herself: — 

“It will be all right,” she told him through numb lips. 

He had advised her writing to Cortwright. She 
realized there was nothing else she could do. But when 
she tried to write she found it impossible. . . . 

All night she walked her room, — back and forth, back 
and forth, — like a wild thing trapped. . . . 


134 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


Even if Philip should marry her (Lisa in her heart 
was more than doubtful of this), what could such a 
marriage mean? After her days of dreaming freedom, 
the thought was like the thought of slavery. Bitter, 
bitter, was her humiliation. . . . 

She knew well enough now that she had never loved 
Philip. In a mbment of weariness, of intoxicated vanity, 
he had taken a cruel advantage. For a few months, 
flattered by his protestations, his glowing promises, she 
had surrendered to his passion. The awakening had 
come gradually. Vaguely restless and dissatisfied even 
before his departure, — dumbly resentful of his almost 
sultan-like claims, — once free of his dominating presence 
her feeling had grown to one of utter revolt and physi- 
cal repulsion. . . . 

Yet if he would not marry her? Was there anything 
else that could happen, — anything, anything at all? 
Dry stormy sobs shook her as she walked back and forth, 
— back and forth. . . . 

It was only toward morning that a thought came, — 
strangely soothing and friendly. It did not seem to 
be a new thought; but something that had been slowly 

growing in her mind for a long time There need 

be no shame, — no public disgrace. ... No one need ever 
guess. This way, even Philip would no longer have the, 
advantage! The doctor might suspect; — but once it 
was all irrevocably over . . . she believed — he would 
keep her secret. . . . 

Standing in the wide sea-window with white set face 
Lisa stared out at the pearly mists of morning. Light 
came slowly. . . . Having taken her final resolve, she 


MICHAEL FINDS THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 135 


told herself she was glad there need be no hurry. . . . 
To-morrow, — next week. . . . Lisa loved the wind and 
the sun. . . . 

Spent with the night’s emotions she fell asleep that 
morning on the sands. Even in sleep her trouble followed 
her. She moaned, moved restlessly, — sobbed with little 
catching breaths. . . . 

A hand touched hers lightly. Someone was bending 
over her. . . . Frightened she started up. 

“You were having bad dreams. . . .” 

It was Michael. His smile, so sweet, so charmingly 
friendly, — half amused, half sympathetic, wholely sin- 
cere, — made it seem all at once natural he should be 
there. . . . 

“Horrid to have bad dreams. ... I often do. You 
didn’t mind my waking you?” 

“Dreams ! Oh, if only. . . .” Lisa caught herself up 
sharply. Her dark childishly dilated eyes filled with 
slow tears. . . . 

“Come!” Michael patted her hand, laughing at her. 
“I believe you aren’t quite awake yet. You haven’t 
asked me how I got here, — or anything. . . .” 

“How did you, then?” 

“Why, the night of the concert, — there was a girl 
stood up when all the others were clapping. I hadn’t 
been going to play again. Encores are stupid. But 
her eyes. . . . Lisa, — I didn’t know till after the fire. 
Then I asked the management. I had to find out who 
that girl was ! Fortunately there had been some trouble 


136 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


about tickets. So when I told them where she sat they 
remembered Mr. Cortwright. . . . 

“Of course, when I first planned for this Western 
trip I intended running over to look you up. . . . That 
was one of my reasons for selecting Corona. ... I 
wonder if you have always remembered, — as I have, 
Lisa ? 

“This is our cave, isn’t it? I didn’t have a bit of 
trouble finding the way. At first, actually, I had 
planned to wriggle through the tunnel! I’d forgotten 
what little shavers we must have been. ... So I came 
round the point; — where a jolly big wave splashed me. 
. . . And found the Sleeping Beauty, — having a bad 
dream! May I stay and visit a bit?” 

“I — suppose so. . . .” Lisa breathed short and quick. 
But as Michael talked on, quite naturally, with a sort of 
droll whimsicality that seemed almost as if he were 
apologizing, — asking her to forget that he had stolen 
on her unawares, she regained something of her com- 
posure. . . . 

He had seen a notice of Cortwright’s New York visit 
in the morning paper. “Clouds and Star” had been 
purchased for the Metropolitan by John Madison;— 
the gift had been passed on and accepted by the com- 
mittee. Mr. Cortwright, it was said, was to be a guest 
on the Madison yacht for a summer cruise up the Maine 
coast. 

This was all news to Lisa. She had had no letter 
from Philip for over a week. If the report were true, 
he would probably not be home till September. She 
found herself catching at the thought. With Michael 


MICHAEL FINDS THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 137 


sitting there on the sands beside her, — so entirely nat- 
ural and friendly, — it came like a reprieve. . . . Why 
shouldn’t she forget and be happy, — for one short 
month? 

“Lisa, when you look out at the sea like that, — your 
eyes. ... You aren’t in any kind of trouble, — are you, 
Lisa? Don’t you remember how you used to tell me 
your troubles. . . .” 

“No, — oh, no !” she denied. “There isn’t anything 
at all. . . . Only, — I’ve been very lonely. . . . You see, 
— all the good ones I ever cared for, — Owen and Kath- 
eryn Griffeth, and Mr. Brentwood, and you , — went 
away. ...” 

She caught her breath. 

Looking into her face Michael thought it was the 
sweetest, loveliest, saddest thing he had ever seen. 

He bent forward, took her hand. “That was hard 
lines. Anyway, I can tell you, I’m glad to be here now. 
And I’m going to stay, — till you get tired of me! I 
can’t play again, the doctor says, for Heaven knows 
how long. . . .” His left hand was still bandaged and 
suspended in a dark silk sling. “So all my concert 
engagements have had to be postponed. There’s a funny 
side to it. I’m a regular king over there. They’re so 
afraid I’ll bring suit. . . . And the ladies who ‘adore’ 
Debussy! You know the kind?” 

Lisa nodded. “Like the girls I used to go to school 
with. . . 

“Well then, — what’s to prevent my moving over to 
the old hotel here? Where you are I can think music* 


138 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


anyway. . . . And we’ll forget the years, — and take 
up our friendship where we left it, — shall we, Lisa?” 

“If — you want to. . . .” 

The look that accompanied the words made Michael 
think of a look he had seen years ago in the eyes of a 
pet spaniel his mother had tired of and ordered shot. 
Over the fate of that spaniel his boyhood had shed 
bitter, unavailing tears. . . . 


CHAPTER XI 


“out of the whirlwind” 

M ICHAEL said that to be with Lisa was like think- 
ing music. 

Lisa thought, but did not say, that to be with 
Michael was like finding a new voice in the stars, the 
wind, the sun. . . . All day and every day they were 
happy together, — just as it used to be when they were 
children. 

Lisa often wondered at her own capacity for happi- 
ness. When Michael laughed, she laughed too, — without 
pretense or effort. When he talked she loved to lie and 
look up into his face. Michael’s face, she told herself, 
was like the sky. ... In the sunshine of his companion- 
ship she found it impossible to believe in the dark clouds 
that threatened her own horizon. 

Something would happen, — something must happen 
to save her, even yet ! 

The solution that had come to her so soothingly in 
the first hours of her tragedy she shrank from now. 
What could it mean but cold oblivion, — forever? . . . 
For the first time in her life she began to be afraid of 
the sea. . . . 

Something must happen! Yet day after day drifted 
by. . . . 


139 


140 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


Lisa had had a letter from Cortwright, written before 
he set out on his yachting cruise: — 

He was having a fine vacation. The sale of “Clouds 
and Star” had added a pretty figure to his bank account ! 
What did she want him to bring her when he came 
home? . . . He hoped she was being a good girl, — and 
getting a rest. He planned to take up work with new 
zest in the fall, — there was nothing like success to whet 
a man’s appetite. . . . Lisa was going to be glad to see 
him, wasn’t she? They’d have plenty of good times to- 
gether yet. . . . 

Lisa crumpled the letter in her hand. Then set a 
match to it. Selfish! cruel! false! 

All “the good ones,” who might have taught her to 
be good, had gone away. . . . 

She remembered how when at school she had gone to 
chapel with the others and everybody sat so still and 
solemn, she used to think it funny. They didn’t really 
believe in the prayers they said, the hymns they sang. 

. . . Or, if they did, it couldn’t count for much; — be- 
lieving in God half an hour every morning ! 

She found herself looking back with regret on her 
scepticism. Oh, if only she had been good, — always 
good, — she needn’t be so afraid what Michael might 
hear! Sometimes it seemed to Lisa she was even more 
afraid of that than of the fate that was creeping on her- 
self. . . . 

The long summer days, golden with sunshine, wakened 
in her a terrible hunger for new happiness ; — the nights 
brought sleepless, wasting despair. 

Her greatest practical consolation was that Smalley 


OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND” 


141 


had gone North on a fishing trip. His was the tongue 
she most dreaded. . . . Michael did not seem to care 
about getting acquainted with the new people. He was 
always telling Lisa how happy he was : — 

“I don’t even miss my violin when I’m with you! A 
violin can’t be a man’s whole life. ... You see, I was 
such a little shaver when they put my nose to the grind- 
stone. And, my, but I’ve worked! Not that I regret 
it. . . . Not that it hasn’t had its compensations.” 

He spoke of his father and his face shadowed. “Only 
fifty-two. He oughtn’t to have gone out like that.” 
Everything Michael was he owed to his father. It was 
his father who had first taught him to toil and study and 
sacrifice. ... “I used to think he was hard on me. 
But thank God, I understood even then, — it was just 
that he cared so much. . . .” 

Michael’s eyes came back to Lisa’s face and rested 
there : — 

“Lisa, — will you believe it? I used to be afraid of 
loving anything. ... I used to think a man couldn’t 
be a great musician and love at the same time.” 

He laughed. His look was like a caress. 

“When I take up my violin again, — there’ll be a new 
voice in it ! That first night at the concert, — what was 
it you tried to ask me, Lisa? I felt I had to an- 
swer. . . .” 

“You did answer,” she said in a low tone. 

But sometimes Michael’s mood would be one of sheer 
boyish fun and high spirits. When this was the case, 
he liked to tease her about her “gypsy kin.” 

“That young fellow, now, — who called himself your 


142 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


brother. . . . What was his name? Pretty looking cus- 
tomer, I must say. Nice manners, too! Frisked my 
knife while I stood listening to the old lady. . . .” 

“He didn’t like you because you have blue eyes. 
Gypsies never like fair people very much,” Lisa ex- 
plained. “I don’t believe Sylvestre would take anything 
from me, — even if. . . . Oh, Michael, — you don’t believe 
I’m a gypsy ! That was the reason I never got on well 
at school — because they believed it. . . . You don’t be- 
lieve it, — do you, Michael ?” 

“What difference can it make?” he answered. “You’re 
Lisa, — aren’t you?” 

She did not tell him of her last interview with Sylves- 
tre, — nor of the message he had brought from Mama 
Soledad. Reticence was second nature to Lisa. Besides, 
she could not bring herself to admit the gypsies had 
any claim. . . . 

It was about this time the news came, — a shock at 
first, then, almost a reassurance, — that good old Dr. 
Beveredge having undergone a “successful” major oper- 
ation in a Los Angeles hospital, had never come out 
from the anaesthetic. . . . There was nobody else, — 
nobody at all, — who knew! . . . 

Though Michael talked of almost everything else 
he rarely talked of his mother. Once, in a rather con- 
strained way, he mentioned she was expecting to join 
him, — some time early in September. And Lisa, equally 
constrained, answered: — “Yes. . . .” She had seen that 
in the papers. . . . Even in the old days Lisa had been 
afraid of Judith. 

Another afternoon when they were on the sands to- 


“OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND” 


143 


gether Michael took her hand, examining one by one 
the smooth slender fingers : — 

“You never wear rings any more. And you used to 
care so much for them. . . .” 

He drew a ring from his own finger. It was a plain 
gold seal, — with the raised outline of a cross in place 
of the customary monogram. 

“Will you wear this, Lisa? My father used to wear 
it on his little finger.” 

“Michael ! Oh, Michael. ... I don’t think — I can!” 

Despite her almost tragic protest, he slipped the ring 
in place; then bent to kiss it; — “I’m wishing it on, 
Lisa. . . 

He did not dare to tell her, just yet, that when he 
had taken the ring from his dead father’s hand, it was 
with the thought he would wear it only till he found the 
woman who was to be his wife. 

It seemed entirely natural to Michael that he should 
love Lisa, though it was too soon yet, he thought, for 
her to know that she loved him. . . . 

“Don’t cry, little darling!” She was pale and trem- 
bling, her hands so cold in his. . . . “It won’t make you 
unhappy to wear it, will it?” 

“Unhappy?” She shook her head. ... A tear fell 
on his hand. “Oh, Michael — I want so much to be 
happy !” 

Then after a moment with what seemed a strange ir- 
relevance: — “Michael, do you believe in — God?” 

“Why, yes,” he answered simply. “Don’t you, Lisa? 
I don’t think I could ever play another note if I didn’t 
believe in God. . . .” 


144 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


Other times Michael would talk of the war with a 
hot passion of indignation that was almost confusing to 
Lisa : — 

“It’s not because I was unhappy in Germany. . . . 
It’s because I can’t bear the things they are doing. . . . 
The deliberate destruction of beauty. . . . The whole- 
sale shattering of happiness! Lisa, I do believe I ac- 
complish something with my music ; — when I play I try 
to make people understand and feel. . . . But sometimes 
I know that isn’t enough. There’ve got to be Americans 
to lead America on ... to give what those others are 
giving. . . . Those poor fellows blinded in battle. . . 

He fell silent, a shadow in his blue eyes. 

Lisa could never bear to see Michael unhappy. . . . 
She exerted herself to distract him ; — to make him laugh 
and forget. 

Yet her own heart was heavy with dread. . . . Smal- 
ley had returned to San Miguel; — and something that 
frightened her even more, — because she had not been ex- 
pecting it, — Mrs. Semple had given notice. There was 
no explanation: — “Yes, she understood Mr. Cortwright 
had expected them to stay till he came home. . . . But 
they’d be leaving Saturday, — if Miss Lisa pleased. 

99 

Lisa, who had been lying on the warm hearthstone, — 
the late August fogs made an evening fire agreeable, and 
like a little cat she loved to stretch her length to the 
blaze, — got up as Mrs. Semple withdrew, passed to her 
own room, and opening the wardrobe door stood for a 
long time looking at her reflection in the full length 
mirror. . . . 


“OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND” 145 

Those cruel little corkscrew eyes! Oh, — she had 
never imagined any one could be so unhappy. . . . 

It was the Sunday afternoon following the Semples’ 
departure that Lisa, on her way to the beach, stopped 
abruptly to look at a little heap of trash scattered by 
the wayside. ... A seashell, some twigs, a spray of 
faded mustard-bloom, a yellow feather. . . . Further 
on another shell with two or three pebbles, — such an 
apparently careless collection of playthings as some 
child might have left. . . . 

An unobservant person would have passed without 
noticing. An uninitiated person, even noticing, could 
have made no correct deduction. But Lisa was neither 
unobservant, nor uninitiated. She had been well drilled 
by Sylvestre in the mysteries of the gypsy pateran. 

To her the sign was explicit, — easy to read as the 
headlines of a newspaper: — 

A band of gypsies had passed north a little after day- 
break that morning. They were her own tribe of Island 
gypsies, the seashell said. There were both men and 
women in the party, indicated by the long and short 
twigs arranged V fashion between which the shell stood. 
The apex of the V pointed north. The condition of the 
spray of mustard (flowers meant there were children 
along) , faded, but not yet dry, — the afternoon was over- 
cast, — proved it had been gathered early that morning. 
The yellow feather gave the additional information the 
band was on one of its periodic peddling jaunts with 
wicker cages of canaries and parrakeets for sale. . . . 
The separate sign, a little further on, — three pebbles, 


146 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


two white, one black, in a smaller shell, — could probably 
have been read by Lisa alone. It was one of Sylvestre*s 
private signals : — He had waited for her in the cave till 
dark the day before. In two days he would return and 
must see her there. . . . 

Lisa did not want to see Sylvestre. His eyes were 
every bit as sharp as Mrs. Semple’s. . . . She stood for 
a moment lost in unhappy cogitation. . . . When she 
went on again it was slowly; — so that she arrived half 
an hour later than she and Michael had agreed to meet 
on the sands in front of the cave. 

At first glance the beach appeared deserted. Lisa 
thought perhaps Michael had not waited. Looking 
again she discovered him, lying in the shadow of the 
archway, his face buried in his arms. Asleep, — she 
decided. It amused her to catch him so. . . . She ran 
lightly, — seated herself beside him. . . . 

Michael, dear Michael! with his sunny laugh, — his 
blue eyes clear and trusting as a girl’s. . . . 

She put out her hand, almost timidly. . . . 

He had not been asleep ! For instantly he turned, — 
shook off her touch with a sickening shudder of repul- 
sion. . . . Raised himself, sat staring at her; his face, 
at first white, slowly darkening to a blood-red surge of 
passion : — 

“Lisa. . . . I’ve been talking to Smalley. . . . God 
damn him ! I — struck him on the mouth ! Lisa. . . .” 
His voice was hoarse, his whole aspect haggard/di- 
sheveled, — trembling with a terribly suppressed emo- 
tion. . . . 

Lisa sat mute, the color ebbing from her face. . . . 


OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND 


147 


“Lisa, — tell me it isn’t true!” 

Her startled tragic gaze never wavered from Mi- 
chael’s. With a little gasp she pressed both hands 
against her breast : — 

“I know — what he’d say. . . . It — isn’t true. Mi- 
chael! Oh , Michael!” She began to weep, bitterly, 
uncontrollably, her face hidden in her hands. . . . 

A moment’s silence. . . . Michael’s arms stole ten- 
derly about her. 

“Dearest! dearest. . . . It’s just — I love you so. 

99 

Her face pressed against his coat, his hand soothing 
her, Lisa wept on. . . . 

She had lied to him and she loved him. For the first 
time in her life she knew what it was to be ashamed 
of a lie ; — for it was only with the lie that full knowledge 
had come to Lisa of what her love for Michael 
meant. . . . 

He would discover that she had lied. How could he 
help but discover it! The contempt he would feel for 
her! . . . The cruel, the intolerable contempt she felt 
for herself ! An agony of shame, of sorrow, pierced her, 
like the birth-pangs of a new soul. 

“Lisa, — please don’t cry ! I want to tell you exactly 
how it happened. ... I know I’m to blame. But ever 
since he came back he’s been hinting, — the yellow cur! 
It got on my nerves, I suppose. So to-day, just before 
I came down here, I told him if he had anything to say 
to say it. . . . He began — and I struck him in the 
mouth. I don’t think there’ll be any more of that kind 
of talk. . . . But — I must have lost my grip, — waiting 


148 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


for you — so long. ... It would have been so easy, — 
so dead easy, — with any other girl. Lisa, — look up !” 

Her weeping had ceased. 

“I know how hard your life has been. God knows, 
I worship and reverence your purity. ... It is for that 
I love you most. No other woman could ever be to me 
what you are. ... Wild and sweet! I used to be 
afraid of loving. . . . Now the thought of life without 
your love. . . . Lisa sweetheart, — will you marry me? 
. . . to-morrow? 

“I haven’t spoken before, because I wasn’t sure you 
loved me. . . . But you do love me, — don't you?” 

“Oh, Michael. . . .You can't know how I love you !” 

Her dark wet glance raised itself humbly to his. 
Michael put down his face. Their lips met and 
clung. . . . 

For a while they sat in silence with clasped hands. 

The tragedy of Michael’s boyhood had been his 
mother’s dominating jealous tyranny. As in the old days 
he had found it impossible to “tell anybody,” so even 
yet he could not bring himself to put the situation 
into words. But he took it for granted Lisa understood 
if they were to be married without a storm, they must 
be married before his mother came. . . . 

It was to her sensitiveness about her mysterious gypsy 
background, her equivocal position as model, that, from 
the first, Michael had attributed Lisa’s distress at his 
love making. And these were the very points his mother 
would most certainly and cruelly attack. ... Not, 
Michael told himself, that it would have made any great 
difference whom he loved. Had he, or his father either, 


“OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND’ 


149 


ever been allowed to have friends? Since his return from 
Germany, — since his father’s death in particular, — he 
had felt the coils tightening. ... A temperament like 
that was a scourge! And Fate in the facts of Lisa’s 
history had supplied a hundred barbs. His mother 
would be coming now in little less than a week. In 
Michael’s letters to her he had never mentioned Lisa’s 
name. . . . 

“Sweetheart, it’s getting late. . . . There’s a storm 
coming. . . .” 

He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed again the ring 
he had wished on her finger : — 

“Why do you look out at the sea like that, Lisa? 
You have forgiven me, — haven’t you?” 

“Oh, Michael!” 

“Come then. . . .” He sprang up. “We’d better 
hurry. . . 

The sky was sullen with lowering clouds. An angry 
brazen glow had succeeded the sunset. Far out the sea 
looked flat and glassy, beaten down by the winds. . . . 

“Hurry! We’ve got to run for it !” 

The premonitory drone of the storm, the ever-in- 
creasing tide, emphasized Michael’s warning. They 
had been too absorbed to notice before. Now, as he 
spoke, a jagged flash of lightning stabbed the horizon, — 
followed by a spatter of heavy raindrops. 

Head down, Lisa scudded before him along the already 
diminished margin of beach. 

“Michael! We’re cut off. . . .” 

He pushed ahead of her to look. 

“Back to the cave, Lisa. . . . Quick !” 


150 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


Soaked, breathless, beaten by the rain, they stared 
at each other in the shelter of the rocky arch. A great 
wind had risen. . . . Moment by moment the sea was 
mounting on them. . . . 

“This isn’t going to do. . . . That ledge, — have you 
ever tried to make it?” 

A narrow shelf of rock widened toward the mouth of 
the cave to potential foothold. It was perhaps on a level 
with their shoulders. 

“I never have. . . . We — mast try, Michael!” 

The turmoil of the tempest drowned her voice. Rain 
and wind seemed to melt and blend in an aqueous 
welter of driven fury. . . . Another gleam of lightning 
showed the sea ; — a black and turgid wall rearing itself 
to engulf them. 

“Quick ! Lisa, — quick !” 

Somehow she was on the ledge. Somehow, Michael 
had followed. The cave reverberated with a clamor of 
voices, — the wash of the retreating waters; the crash 
and roar of thunder. . . . 

On their perilous elevation, they clung to each other, 
bracing themselves against the rock. Michael had dis- 
carded his sling. One arm held Lisa to him; his free 
hand clutched the archway above his head. . . . 

“Lisa, I love you. ... I love you !” 

“Michael, — dear!” 

Another wave, — another, and another. They felt 
themselves dragged at, their feet almost swept from 
under them. 

“Sweetheart, — try not to be afraid. . . .” 


OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND 


151 


Her trembling made it hard for him to hold her. The 
mad racing of her heart shook them both. 

Again the roar of elemental conflict. . . . The en- 
compassing blackness, pierced awfully as by some fiery 
avenging sword. 

Lisa cowered, hiding her eyes against Michael’s breast. 
Heaven, which had heard her lie, would punish it. 
Michael’s life as well as her own must pay. . . . 

Momentarily the storm grew more terrible. To Lisa 
it was the furious voice of a justly roused God. 

As a very little girl, believing wholeheartedly that 
her mother lived with God among the stars, Lisa had 
been sincerely, if supers titiously, religious. Her child’s 
credulity shattered, and nothing else supplied, scepti- 
cism had grown up in its place. 

At school the formal chapel exercises had left her 
quite untouched. Often as she had heard the Bible read, 
there had seemed no personal application. . . . Now, 
with a rush, the unseen world, was the vital world. . . . 
Suddenly, Lisa felt she understood how it was Judas 
Iscariot had gone out and hanged himself. . . . 

“ Sweetheart ! Be still. . . .” 

Michael had to fight with Lisa’s struggle to free her- 
self. It was all he could do to catch her back — steady 
and hold her. . . . 

“If we die together, Lisa. . . ? What is there in the 
world that counts, — but love!” 

With a little sigh she grew quiet. A flare of glimmer- 
ing lightning revealed her face, — like a white flower, he 
thought, resting against his breast. . . . 


152 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


“Michael. . . A lull in the storm brought her 
voice. . . . “What is — God?” 

“Dearest, what can He be, — but part of the very love 
we feel in our own hearts. . . .” 

Lisa found no reply. The words convicted her. She 
loved Michael, — and she had lied to him. . . . To lie 
to one you love was almost like betraying God Him- 
self. . . . 

Even the gypsies, despised and outcast among men, 
differentiated between deceiving an enemy and betraying 
a friend. 

Michael’s arms were warm and safe about her. She 
wore his ring on her finger. He had kissed her, and she 
had given back his kiss, — as Judas kissed Christ ! 

Philip had told Lisa how much he loved her. His 
love had been nothing but treachery; — cruel, selfish, 
false. . . . Was Lisa’s love for Michael to be like that? 

She could not do that thing toward which she had 
been drifting! But neither, she knew, could she ever 
confess to Michael the truth. Was there no other way, 
— but the sea? At the thought her head grew dizzy, her 
pulses faint. . . . 

Michael said, God was part of the very love they felt 
in their own hearts; — and God had given Lisa her 
life. . . . Just to be alive was something. To know the 
freshness of spring mornings, the warmth of fire when 
you were cold and tired, — the keen tang of salty 
winds. . . . 

Suddenly she felt strangely peaceful and at rest. 
The swish of the rain, the moan of the sea came to her 
dimly. . . . 


‘OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND’ 


153 


She found herself thinking of the gypsy pater an. . . . 

Gypsies wandered the country over, trudging often 
cold and hungry in the storm. . . . Nobody wanted 
them. . . . Driven from town to town hardly anybody 
had a good word for them. . . . 

Yet that day in the cave Sylvestre had told the truth. 
A gypsy did not go back on his friends. Poor and 
miserable himself, he knew how to sympathize with mis- 
ery. He would share his last pinch of tobacco, — his 
very homelessness, with one more homeless. . . . 

“Sweetheart !” She felt Michael’s lips on her eyelids. 
“It’s morning. . . . You’ve been asleep. . . .” 

“Michael ! How pale you are ! Oh, — you have stood 
there and held me. . . 

But despite cramp and chill Michael seemed in the 
gayest of spirits. 

“Brave little Lisa,” he teased. “So afraid she was 
going to be drowned she had to try to throw herself 
into the sea ! Look out at the sun. . . . To-day is the 
day we are to be married !” 

“Not to-day! Not to-day, Michael, mmcma. . . .” 

“To-morrow, then. . . . Since you must be like every 
other woman!” 

He laughed at her lapse into a tongue she was gen- 
erally so careful to avoid. And Lisa, looking up into 
his face, laughed too. She never could help it with 
Michael. 

Yet, in the familiar evasions of Spanish speech, 
manana does not mean to-morrow. It means never. . . . 












































































































































































































































































































































































































































* 

PART II 


t 





































/ 


CHAPTER XII 


THE ISLAND 

T WO gypsy girls were walking along a dusty road 
that trailed through a squalid scatter of ’dobe huts 
(you could scarcely call it a village) on into a smoky 
sea of rolling gray sage. It was that first half hour 
after sunset before the twilight falls, when the clear, 
rayless translucence of atmosphere seems to intensify 
the color of all nature. 

The girls walked in silence, neither chattering nor 
singing. The droop of their shoulders, the drag of 
their feet, was in striking contrast to the usual free 
swing of their kind. It was plain to be seen that they 
were discouraged as well as dog-weary. They had been 
on the go since early morning, and had had no luck. 
The woven grass baskets they carried were still unsold. 

Both girls were pretty, quite exceptionally so. But 
though a superficial glance would have remarked only 
the common resemblance in certain picturesque Oriental 
characteristics of black plaited hair, dark eyes, and 
lithe slender bodies, a more discriminating attention 
would have discovered an even greater distinction. 

The younger of the two, with her pouting red lips, 
long curled lashes, the childish contour of coffee-brown 
shoulder visible through a rent in her soiled and tattered 
dress, possessed all the appealing charm and pathos of 
157 


158 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


some small pet animal. Hers was an ephemeral loveli- 
ness, wild, natural, as sure to wither with the years as 
a spring flower withers in the sun. 

In the face of the elder girl was a different look alto- 
gether. 

She, too, was obviously tired, obviously discouraged; 
depressed, one might almost have believed, by the fore- 
knowledge of some definite dread still to be endured; 
but«in the poise of the head, the carriage of the person, 
above all in the deep mystical glance of the great dark 
eyes, there was imperious magnetism, — that arresting, 
indescribable harmony of attributes which makes for 
absolute beauty. It was not merely a matter of features 
or of coloring. True beauty rarely is. But, worn as 
she was, dusty, disheveled with the day’s tramp, there 
still remained an unquenched radiance, a soft alluring 
grace. No one could have passed her without a second 
look. She could not have been more than twenty-one 
or two. Yet as she stood for a moment, — their way had 
gradually ascended to the crest of a low hill, — to gaze 
out over the rolling stretches of parched country which 
the twilight shadows were now beginning to swathe and 
soften in enfolding waves of purple light, her face was 
illuminated by an expression of rapt and dreamy 
thoughtfulness, — an expression far beyond what could 
have been expected of her years or general vagabond 
condition, — totally different from the look of wistful 
endurance of the child by her side. . . . 

“Sister, what’s the use of stopping? If he’s going 
to beat us, — he’s going to beat us. Me — I’d rather 
hurry home ahead of him and get a bite to eat first. 


THE ISLAND 


159 


I never can eat afterwards — not if it was came , 
even. . . 

“Perhaps he won’t . . . to-night. We tried hard 
enough.” The elder girl looked down at the string of 
little grass baskets hanging from her shoulders. “And 
to-morrow we’ll be going on to Cerro Gordo. We ought 
to be able to sell them there.” 

She spoke hopefully; but it was more to encourage 
her companion than anything else. Visibly she herself 
shrank from the ordeal; — shrank from it with a sensi- 
tive physical antipathy that made it hard for her to 
go on, — to follow the other’s lead down hill. 

“Huh! Won’t he, though? Well — not if he’s drunk 
enough. He’ll want to kiss you then, — and she'll fly 
out! Come on, — sister. There ain’t no use stoppin’ 

99 

That was true. There wasn’t any use. Again they 
walked on in silence. 

“Oh, well, — there’ll be dancing after the round-up. 
He won’t want to make us too stiff to dance.” The 
child hunched her shoulders; — spat to the side of the 
road. “And I did sell one little basket. Mira! I have 
the dinero here. . . .” Slyly she displayed a knotted 
end of neckerchief, then tucked it back carefully inside 
her dress. “Don’t you tell ! I’m going to buy two red 
hair-ribbons. And, sister, I’ll give one to you.” 

By this time they had come to a rocky declivity lead- 
ing down to a sort of dry arroyo screened from the 
road by a bristling growth of yucca. Here they stopped 
a moment to listen. Then turned and began to scramble 
down the bank. 


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FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


A few steps more revealed the ragged little brown 
tent, squatting like a lone mushroom in the sandy bed 
of the stream. A mangy mongrel, his premonitory 
growl gradually turning to a cringing whine of wel- 
come came sidling to meet them. A heavy-looking, sul- 
len-faced young woman with a sickly baby in her arms 
stepped to the opening of the tent. 

“You’re here at last, are you? Well, — it’s time. 
And what have you been doing all day, I’d like to know?” 
with a quick malicious glance at the string of unsold 
baskets. “Oh, he’ll give it to you ! He’ll give it to you 
hot and heavy! He ain’t home yet, — but just you 
wait. . . .” 

“Nobody wouldn’t buy them. ... We didn’t even 
get nothing to eat.” 

The younger girl began to whimper, rubbing her 
fingers in her eyes. 

“Nobody wouldn’t buy them! Shut up, Tona. You 
knew well enough what you’d get, coming home without 
the diner o. What’s your tongue for? Here, — take this 
bucket. I seen some cows the other side the wash. Per- 
haps, if you can get some milk for supper, he’ll let you 
off.” 

The child, hanging her string of baskets inside the 
tent, seized the bucket and darted away. The older girl, 
having also hung up her baskets, turned to the water- 
pail. It was empty, — a patch of wet sand beside it 
revealing the shabby trick. 

“No water for la Reina? Different on the Island, — 
wasn’t it, sitting by looking at others work?” 

Morelia laughed as Lisa stooped to take up the empty 


THE ISLAND 


161 


pail. “Might as well drink and cool off before your 
beating. He’ll give it to you, — he’ll give it to you hot 
enough ! Say now, — that’s not like having a chap 
ready to go down on his knees and cook your fish. . . .” 

“Hold your tongue!” Lisa’s eyes flashed. “How 
dare you speak to me of Sylvestre ! You stole his boat. 
... You left him to die in the reeds. ...” 

“Stole his boat! I’ll teach you. . . . Who says my 
husband stole anything. . . ?” 

Morelia’s voice rose. Her quick ear had caught Se- 
cundio’s lurching step outside. She intended that he 
should hear her. There was nothing in life that gave 
her such exquisite pleasure as to see him fall on Lisa 
with his heavy walking stick. . . . 

Lisa also heard, — too late, — and shrank back, white 
faced, into the shadow of the tent. . . . 

\ But Secundio' had been drinking enough to make him 
feel affectionate. That was all he cared about; — to 
drink and to play his fiddle. With a maudlin smile, a 
bleary eye, — he entered, — looked this way and that: — 
i “Where is she?” he hiccoughed. “Where’s my pretty 
little brown dove? Hiding in a corner? Frightened, — 
frightened of me?” He stumbled toward Lisa, — grabbed 
her round the waist. . . . “Let’s kiss and make it up, 
paloma! I wouldn’t hurt thee. ... I wouldn’t hurt my 
little brown dove. . . . Who cares for the old hen’s 
cackle when there’s a pretty little tame dove ready to 
his hand. . . .” 

Lisa struggled, trying to fight him off. At the same 
moment Morelia, seizing a small iron pot of cold beans 


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FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


she had been intending to heat up for supper, launched 
it full at his head. 

He might beat her. That was his right. The more 
he beat her, the more she admired him, apparently. But 
to kiss another woman before her very eyes ! Let him 
look to that ! 

In the general mix-up that followed, Lisa made her 
escape. 

Unable to endure the stifling cluttered little tent she 
had built herself a shelter of dry branches and brush- 
wood in the mouth of an intersecting wash. Here she 
threw herself down. She wanted water . . . wanted it 
terribly ! But she dared not be seen going for it. Her 
whole body shrank and trembled. The heavy pound- 
ing of her heart hurt her. . . . She was so afraid of 
Secundio ! 

The angry wrangle in the tent rose and culminated 
in the sound of sickening muffled blows. Then silence. 
. . . Morelia never cried out when Secundio beat her. 
After a while Tona’s scrambling descent could be heard. 
Lisa started up, — leaned out, — listening. . . . But the 
child must have succeeded in her errand, for there was 
no new disturbance. 

Somewhere an owl hooted. Above the bristling yucca 
barrier that topped the opposite bank, the stars were 
brightening to points of living silver. Lisa sighed. . . . 
Another day was over! Perhaps after a while Tona 
would come with something to eat. . • . 

The rocky island of San Cristobal had never counted 
for much in the eyes of the de la Rosa family : — whose 


THE ISLAND 


163 


men affected politics, whose women cared only for so- 
ciety or the church. How should it? Holy Mother of 
God! Lower California doesn’t count for much with 
most people. And the island was worse even than the 
Peninsula; — a very desert of a place, the barren slopes 
covered with sparse sun-dried stubble, the craggy bluff 
above the arc of glittering beach dotted here and 
there with cedars, shaggy, lop-sided, twisted by sea 
winds. . . . 

“A jumping-off spot! Conjured by the devil and 
forgotten of him again,” as Don Angeles in his palmy 
days used often enough to declare : — “Fit only for goats 
or for gypsies !” 

Yet it was the goats, breeding and multiplying among 
the arid sand hills, that were destined to restore the 
depleted de la Rosa fortunes. It was among the gypsies 
Don Angeles himself found welcome during the period 
of his earlier political reverses. 

If there can be nothing much more repellent than an 
old gitcma , the young ones have their charm. Don 
Angeles was not the first man to discover this. Whether 
he actually went through the prescribed form of Romano 
marriage rite, — as certain considerate individuals tried 
later to make his family believe, — he did all his life 
acknowledge in a left-handed sort of way the gypsy 
connection. 

They manage these things differently in Mexico ; and 
Sebastian de la Rosa, “the gitano goldfinch,” was openly 
called “cousin” by the young heir of the house. . . . 
It seemed then an ironic coincidence that the popular 


164 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


tenor should have met his death by shipwreck off the 
shores of the very island reputed to be his birthplace. 

The sunken reefs beyond San Cristobal had a bad 
name for wrecks. People are never slow to blame gyp- 
sies. What the sea swept upon the sands was theirs for 
the picking up. . . . There’s history in a name, some- 
times, — and ship captains told ugly stories of Falsa 
Luz Cape. None uglier than the rumors that gathered 
about the San Francisco disaster. . . . 

Both Upper and Lower California had cause to 
remember that catastrophe, — for the tragic fate of the 
two stage favorites, Sebastian de la Rosa and Lyda 
Leigh. Whatever the true history of their relations 
(There had been gossip enough. People thought it a 
pity de la Rosa could not manage a divorce. . . .), they 
were together in the same life-boat lost with all hands 
amid the pounding surges of San Cristobal reef. 

The following year, 1898, saw the erection of a light- 
house beyond the reefs, sponsored and financed by the 
Governor, General Filipe de la Rosa y Romaro, in mem- 
ory of his “cousin,” it was said. Since then there had 
been no more wrecks; but Mexican revolutions “as 
usual.” The de la Rosas, like many another family of 
their caste, had risen only to fall again. . . . Scat- 
tered, hunted, in exile they wandered, — who knew 
where? The island had returned to the gypsies and 
the goats. . . . 

The old ranch-house, deserted and in ruins, stood to 
the east of Pequena Bay, a little natural harbor where 
the gypsies kept their fishing-boats, at the mouth of the 
salt-water creek that emptied itself in the shallow marsh 


THE ISLAND 


165 


midway the island. It was along this creek the women 
gathered the rushes and grasses used in making their 
baskets and birdcages. Their camping place was the 
other side Falsa Luz Cape, — away from the ranch-house 
which they avoided. 

Everybody knows .it is bad luck for a gypsy to sleep 
under a roof. Also the place had a spirit. More than 
one had seen it; — sometimes in the form of an adder 
coiled watching on the flat stone before the hingeless 
door; sometimes in the shape of a great black goat with 
fiery eyes clattering through peals of thunder amid rain 
and lightning down Falsa Luz Cape to the bay. And 
storm or sunshine, there were always voices about the 
old house, — a continuous low rustle and whisper within 
its ruinous walls. . . . 

It was to talk with these voices that Mama Soledad, 
blind, decrepit, “called” but unable to go, would steal 
away from the tattered tents of the gypsy encampment, 
and staff in hand make her slow way somehow along the 
beach. There was no holding her back. Hour after 
hour she would sit in the roofless ranch-hall, amid 
drifted sands, talking and muttering to herself. Lisa 
was the only one not afraid to follow. 

“You said she had something to tell me,” she com- 
plained to Sylvestre. 

“That’s true ; — but you came too late. . . .” 

It did not matter, Lisa thought. Nothing seemed to 
matter any more, since that wild storm-tossed hour when 
her terrified soul had wakened to the Voice of God 
thundering out of the whirlwind. ... As sometimes 
happens after a severe case of fever, a sort of numbed 


166 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


apathy without keenness of either thought or feeling 
had settled on her spirit. . . . 

The sun rose and set. Some days were chill and misty, 
others warm and bright. To the easy routine of the 
gypsy encampment with its al fresco housekeeping, its 
seeming utter carelessness of past or future, its mere 
instinctive physical happiness in existence, such as gull 
or squirrel might feel, she adapted herself without effort. 
No other environment could have suited so well her 
present limited gamut of sensation. 

Sylvestre had welcomed her offer to return with him 
to the island, as she had known he would, with keen 
secret gratification which he did his best to hide under 
an indifferent manner. Lisa had given no explanation 
'for her sudden change of mind. Whatever he might 
have guessed was hinted at only : — 

“Sister, we Romano people are a queer sort of people, 
as you well know. There’s not one of us gives a centavo 
w r hat the world may think. But we have our own law. 
... A skinful of broken bones, now, — any time you say 
the word. . . .” 

“No, Sylvestre! Oh, no. . . . All I want is to go 
back with you to the Island. . . 

They had not waited for the rest of the band, and 
found only Mama Soledad, a few old men, young children 
and mothers with little babies, left in the camp. This 
made it easier for Lisa. When the other gypsies did 
return some weeks later, they were kind and cordial 
enough in their rough way. Curiosity they must have 
felt; but they asked no questions. Only Morelia, old 
time antagonist and rival, would shoot a meaning glance 


THE ISLAND 167 

now and then, — a supercilious raising of the eyebrows, 
an innuendo pointed by a sneer. 

Morelia, it seemed, had captured her Secundio, — who 
may have entertained regrets for his past freedom. At 
any rate, he beat her more frequently than could have 
been quite comfortable; and she often sat back from 
the camp fire of an evening to prevent people’s noticing 
a black eye. She had to carry wood and water. It was 
plain to be seen she was not up to that sort of thing. 
. . . Secundio, a lazy little runt of a chap, with pock- 
marked face, — mischievous and good-for-nothing even 
in the gypsy sense of the word, — aspired to be the wit 
of the tribe. When he was not engaged in beating up 
his bride, he too frequently made her the butt of his 
rough horseplay. Lisa, in an impersonal sort of way, 
felt sorry for Morelia and refused to pay any attention 
to her scornful glances. 

So far as old Soledad was concerned, Lisa’s return 
seemed to make little difference. Ravaged by time, 
feeble in limb and witless of mind, la Vieja lived only 
in the past. Day or night she could find no rest. It 
was as if her worn-out body, already half given over 
to corruption, was kept back from the grave by some 
black haunting spirit of terror, of remorse. . . . 

“Do you believe, if she could tell me she would be free 
to go?” Lisa asked Sylvestre. 

“Qu’n sabe? . . . She called for you, and you 
wouldn’t come.” 

Sylvestre, like most of the gypsies, was frankly afraid 
of the old woman. Nothing would have induced him to 
follow her as Lisa did day after day. But Mama Sole- 


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FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


dad needed someone to watch out for her and accepted 
“ la nina’s ” attendance without question, — scolding her 
and ordering her about just as she had done when Lisa 
was a little girl. . . . 

Most people would not have thought there was much 
comfort to be found in the ruined ranch-house. Such 
rude and scanty furnishings as it had once possessed 
had long since been smashed up or carried *off. Even 
the bit of attempted orchard behind its battered shelter 
of stone wall looked desolate enough. Many of the fig 
and olive trees were dead. The sand had drifted over 
the crumbling wall, and thorny brambles invaded what 
had once been meant for flower-beds. 

Yet to Lisa the place had come to seem a sort of 
refuge. At the gypsy camp there was always some kind 
of excitement : — a continual, good-natured, inconsequent 
chatter among the women; a horde of restless, mis- 
chievous children up to all sorts of tricks, and the 
dogs. . . . 

It was one raw and foggy afternoon, when the brief 
southern winter was fast creeping on, that the old 
woman, all crippled up with rheumatism, sat huddled on 
the cold hearth shivering and complaining. A pene- 
trating sea fog was rolling in. Lisa decided she would 
build a fire in the dilapidated chimneyplace. She went 
out into the orchard, ^gathered wood; returned and soon 
had a little blaze started. 

Suddenly Mama Soledad, roused by the warmth looked 
up, — gave a hoarse croak and began to beat out the 
flames with her hands. . . . 

“ Pam ! pani /” she shrieked. 


THE ISLAND 


169 


Lisa, frightened at she did not know what, ran for 
water and they soon had the fire out. 

Mama Soledad on her knees then began carefully to 
brush back the wet ashes. . . . She pried with clawlike 
fingers at a loosened stone. The stone gave. . . . She 
slipped her hand underneath. . . . 

What she brought out was a man’s gold watch, — 
handsome, rather heavily old-fashioned and ornate. The 
trembling fingers held it close to the haggard old face, 
— staring, staring, with sightless eyes. . . . 

She turned to Lisa as if she wanted to say something, 
— gave her the watch. . . . 

“What is it? what is it?” Lisa insisted. There was a 
monogram she could not make out, — except that one of 
the letters might be an L or an S, and one she was 
sure was an R. The catch was evidently defective ; for 
as she turned the watch, it opened in her hand : — 

Fitted into the case was a miniature photograph, — 
two heads, lovingly close, that of a young girl and a 
little child. . . . Yellow with time, dim and stained with 
sea-water, Lisa’s first confused impression was that it 
was her own picture she was looking down at. . . . But 
the hair was arranged differently, — the eyes were not 
the same. . . . The dress was of a fashion of some 
twenty years before. 

“Mi madre !” Lisa cried and seized Mama Soledad by 
the arm and began to shake her: — “Tell me! Tell me 
where you got this !” 

It was useless. . . . Whatever the old woman had 
wanted to tell was gone. . . . All she could do now was 
to whimper and tremble, muttering rambling excuses : — 


170 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


“Eh! There’s always somebody ready to blame the 
gitanos. . . . Dios mio! are we to go without our fires 
in the fog? And if the sea brings us a present now and 
then, — that’s robbery, too, is it?” 

Her voice rose. She began to wring her hands and 
moan: — “My little goldfinch! My little gypsy song- 
bird! Never, never any more that voice. ... A dead 
face on the sands. . . . Ay! ay de mi!” 

Lisa, thoroughly frightened, had all she could do to 
get the old woman on her feet and back to the encamp- 
ment. . . . 

Late into the night her delirium increased. She con- 
tinued to moan and cry out, tossing about on her bed : — 

“False lights ! false lights in the storm ! A dead face 
on the sands. . . . All, all lost but the little one. . . . 
We hid her and they said I had brought a curse. Sole- 
dad became my name !” 

By this time the tent was crowded. Word had spread 
that old Soledad was passing. . . . Men and women 
pushed in, swayed back again. No one wanted to ap- 
proach too close: — 

“Twenty dollars. . . . Who says I sold her? I 
called to her out of the darkness, — and she came. . . . 
Wicked have I been !” 

Her voice rose shrilly. For months unable to hold 
herself erect, suddenly she rose. . . . Shaking the griz- 
zled locks from her blind and bloodshot eyes she towered 
in the flickering fireglow: — 

“Pie dad! piedad! Yo me arrepiento /” 

She crashed down like a fallen tree. It was the end. 


THE ISLAND 


171 


Next morning they carried her to burial in the old 
orchard back of the ruined ranch-house. . . . 

“She’s gone now,” Lisa said that evening to Sylvestre. 
“Why can’t you tell me what she wanted to tell?” 

He looked at her uncomfortably; but would answer 
nothing. The other gypsies were equally close-mouthed. 
So Lisa, who had her own share of secretiveness, asked 
no more questions; but sewed the watch into the hem 
of her skirt for safe-keeping. . . . 

With December came the rains, — early that year. 
There was much cold and discomfort even among the 
gypsies, accustomed as they were to an open-air life 
in all sorts of weather. To Lisa the gray sea mists, 
the smoky tent, the coarse monotonous fare, meant 
actual misery. She was no longer up to wandering. 
Day after day she sat shivering with huddled knees, — 
staring at the fire. Into her dark eyes had come a look 
of strain, of dumb suffering and apprehension. 

The gypsy women with rough kindness tried to en- 
courage her: — 

“God’s Mother! You’re not the first. . . . Look at 
Senora Cabrera over there, — thirteen and another on 
the way. . . . Women must bear. Cry to-day and 
laugh to-morrow, — the ninito at breast. . . .” 

Only Morelia remained aloof, darkly jealous and hos- 
tile. Her baby had come stillborn. The second day 
she was up and about as usual, chopping wood, carry- 
ing water. The attentions Lisa received evidently an- 
gered her. 

One evening when Sylvestre came in with some fish 


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FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


he had caught, — cleaned them and cooked them on the 
hot coals, Morelia stood by, watching scornfully:- — 

“Bueno! Everything for la Reina. . . . Me, — I’d 
rather lose my muchacho and have a rom of my own 
than get the finest baby in the world, — and no father 
for it !” 

Lisa, who had been about to help herself to fish, 
sprang up. One or two started to laugh; but seeing 
Sylvestre tUm on Morelia thought better of it. 

“You, — a rom of your own! A fine rom you’ve got! 
A mongrel, — no true Romano at all. . . There can 
be no greater contempt than that felt by the true gypsy 
for the half-caste; and it was generally whispered Se- 
cundio was of mixed blood. . . . “Little pock-marked, 
bandy-legged he-toad, I wouldn’t step out of the road 
to keep from squashing. ... A rom of your own, — a 
fine rom. . . . And fine he treats you !” 

But Morelia had fled. Lisa also had disappeared into 
her tent where later Sylvestre came to her. 

“Sister, there’s something I’ve been thinking about 
this good while,” he began. “Just listen to what I’ve 
got to say to you, — and don’t make no answer till I 
finish. . . ” 

As if embarrassed he broke off, glanced swiftly away 
and then back again: — “Well, here it is, — my proposi- 
tion. You don’t have to stay here, if you don’t want. 
. . . I’ve got some money put by.” Sylvestre was a 
clever sort of chap and, for a gypsy, thrifty when he 
did not gamble. “There’s my boat. Just say the word 
and I’ll take you over to Santiago, — where you can 


THE ISLAND 


173 


have doctors and all that sort of thing. Now wait a 
moment. . . 

For Lisa with a queer scared look was trying to smile 
at him and shaking her head. . . . 

“I told you not to answer till I finished. . . .” Again 
he hesitated. What he had to say did not come eas- 

i>y- 

“Bueno , — this is it. ... You know I’ve always called 
you ‘sister’. . . . That’s our way. But if you’d feel 
any more comfortable having a rom of your own, — 
seeing what’s coming on you. . . . The devil!” 

She had started up, was staring at him with wide 
incredulous eyes. 

“Listen, sister, — before you say anything. . . . We 
could go to the padre at Santiago if that’s your wish, — 
or take hands in true Romano style before our own. 
. . . There couldn’t be no more talk then.” He 
breathed heavily, flushed under his tawny skin. . . . 

“What I mean is — you’d get a father for the mu~ 
chacho and. . . .” 

“ Sylvestre ! How good you are. . . .” 

“Me, — good?” Unaffectedly he gaped at her. Many 
names had he been called in his life, — but never that be- 
fore. . . . 

Then with a flash of dark eyes, a growing husky 
eagerness. . . . 

“We could do it all right. I’ve let you think you 
was my blood sister, so I’d get the better right to take 
care of you. . . . Any of the pals will bear me out in 
that. . . . But here’s the straight of it. . . .” He low- 
ered his voice: — “She married twice. The first time to 


174 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


a senor. . . . What could it bring* but bad luck? Then 
when he went away and bought the young one from her, 
as they tell, and she heard he had another senora, — she 
got her another man from among our own. Some 
wouldn’t have taken her. He did. . . .” He shook his 
head darkly. “Better not talk of it. . . . Well, you 
see, we’re cousins ; — and that’s all. Ask any of the 
pals. Now, then, if you want a rom. . . 

“Sylvestre, — oh no! I couldn’t ! But you are good. 

He spat and turned away. For one moment he had 
believed she was going to consent. Yet he would not 
press her: — 

“And you don’t want me to take you to Santiago?” 

“No,— no. . . .” 

“Well, — never mind. . . . It’s all to be as you say. 
And, sister, if you’ll just forget what I’ve told 
you. . . .” 

Lisa almost did come to forget, — for that night her 
pains came on her. She had never known physical suf- 
fering before. She had never known illness, except 
as a child when she had lain dulled and stupid with 
fever. . . . 

In the distraction and wrack of her torture she 
thought she was again on the narrow ledge of rock with 
Michael, amid wild mounting tempest and black devour- 
ing seas. Billow after billow beat over her, — dragging 
and clutching. Between the waves came the lightning, — 
a fiery stabbing sword. . . . What was Michael’s 
strength to hold her back? 

She gasped and strangled, — fighting, fighting for 


THE ISLAND 


175 


breath. . . . Hour after hour she struggled, till she 
had no more strength. The waves had conquered; — 
had torn her from Michael’s arms. . . . 

She was alone, — alone in her desolation . . . drifting 
to gray oblivion. Why should she care? What was 
there in life to hold her back? 

She seemed now to have floated into a hollow place 
of silence, where there was only one thought, — faint 
and dim. . . . 

Michael had said that God was part of the very love 
they felt in their own hearts. . . , 

Her dying vision cleared. As in a dream she could 
see the red glow of the fire; the dark faces of the gypsy 
women, — bending over her, drawing back. . . . She 
could hear the sound of their voices, and the distant 
lulling murmur of the sea. . . . 

Through the lifted flap of the tent was night and a 
star. . . . How it sparkled and flamed, — like the pure 
light of an altar candle. Her mother lived among the 
stars with God. . . . To float away from life and all 
life’s pain. . . . 

But breaking through the hollow place came a cry; 
— a shrill protesting little cry, bereft and piteous. . . . 
Lisa on her bed of dry cedar branches and old sail-cloth 
smiled. 

They had put her baby in her arms. 


CHAPTER XIII 


OF THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN TATCHO ROMANO AND 
MONGREL 

L ISA had never thought of loving her baby. But 
he was so little, — so utterly, so incredibly her own ! 
His tiny hands were like curled rose-petals. His sleek 
little dark head as round and smooth as a seal’s. 

Never in her life before had Lisa had anything she 
must take care of. To her baby she was shelter, nurture, 
warmth. ... For three days she kept him close to her 
heart ; — and the third day he died. 

They thought at first her grief would kill her. The 
gypsy women could not understand her dumb and 
frozen state, — that neither wept nor cried out. She 
would not speak of the child; had no explanation for 
his sudden illness. There was need for explanation. 
Strong and lively in the morning, — stricken and as good 
as gone by night. . . . 

A whisper passed from lip to lip. Dark looks were 
thrown at Morelia. Everybody knew how she hated 
Lisa. Several recalled having seen her come and stand 
in the raised flap of the tent, — staring down at the 
baby. . . . Fits were fits. . . . But, — Holy Mother of 
God ! ... to look at a child with a look like that ! 

176 


TATCHO ROMANO AND MONGREL 177 


Lisa scattered their suspicions with a sharply tragic 
cry: — 

“No! no! Morelia was thinking of her own. . . . 
Oh, don’t talk of it. . . . If you will have a reason, — 
it is here!" She pressed her hands against her bosom. 

They did not understand; and because they did not 
it frightened them. They were kind and they were 
sorry ; but they began to let her alone. 

The old orchard bloomed that spring with poppies 
and wild mustard. The brambles turned to garlands, 
a spicy, snowy drift flung over the broken wall. It was 
behind the ruined ranch-house the gypsies had buried 
the baby beside old Soledad. ... A bare and tiny 
grave next that other untended grave. . . . 

Here as Lisa’s strength returned she would walk, — 
back and forth, back and forth, all day long, — under 
the greening fig trees. It was terrible for her to feel 
she was growing strong again. She could not under- 
stand why she must go on living. . . . For those three 
dreamlike days when she held her baby in her arms there 
had seemed a new wonder, a new reason in life. . . . 
Because she was not good enough, — did her baby have 
to die? 

Sorrow and rebellion shook her like a storm. Who 
had there ever been to teach her what was good, what 
was bad? She had not thought of harming anybody; — 
all she had thought of was to be happy! Suddenly it 
burst on her, — had not her baby died, he, too, must 
have suffered . . . must have grown up to feel that 
she had harmed him ! However disproportionate the con- 
sequences, there was no escaping her sense of guilt, — 


178 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


her sense of accusation. . . . Whereas in the old days 
Lisa had blamed Philip, it was now herself that she 
blamed. 

Gradually, out of her anguish, she had come to under- 
stand that by giving herself lightly to a man she did 
not love, she had blasphemed against love. Life’s sa- 
cred mysteries she had played with and thrown away. 
. . . She had lost Michael, — she had lost her baby. . . . 
Walking under the fig trees she would wring her hands 
and moan. But the tears never came. . . . 

The gypsy women shook their heads. It could only 
lead to madness, — a grief like that. 

Sylvestre, at his wits’ ends, asked Senora Cabrera, 
her fourteenth in her arms : — 

“Well then, you ought to know. What is there we 
can do? Anything you say. It don’t matter what it 
costs. . . 

The Senora shifted her muchacho to her hip. It was 
time he learned to use his own back. 

“Why, little brother, it’s no natural state, — that way 
of taking on. Never seen nothing like it before. It’s 
not a case for herb teas nor physic. Anyway, can’t 
get her to touch nothing like that.” 

She helped herself from the tobacco-pouch he held 
out. 

“I’ve got a book in there,” with a nod toward the 
disorderly interior of her stained and ragged tent: — 
“It’s a good book and a powerful one, they do say. 
Belonged to my mother’s mother, who knew two church 
prayers and the first ten letters of the alphabet. Never 
died at all, the old one; — just wandered off into the 


TATCHO ROMANO AND MONGREL 179 


mountains and that was the last seen of her. . . . Too 
much learning. . . . 

“Be still, you little devil, if you don’t want your 
mouth smacked. . . . 

“Bueno, — we Romano gente ain’t supposed to know 
much of that sort of thing. As for me, all the religion 
I’ve ever picked up was here and there by the roadside, 
— from the singing of the birds, or the blooming of the 
flowers, — as you might say. And then, — there’s the 
stars. ... It may be the Blessed Ones don’t even under- 
stand our kind of talk; — any more than I understand 
the talk of the padres in the churches. . . . Patter, 
patter, patter, like so many drops of rain. I’m not say- 
ing what you pay for ain’t the surest. . . . 

“Well, it’s a powerful book, — and there’s a picture. 
If you want to take and hide it in her bed, where she’ll 
rest her head on it. ... I don’t promise nothing; — 
but that’s the best I know for driving out black 
thoughts. . . .” 

Sylvestre listened with respectful attention. He him- 
self could not read a word, any more than could the 
Senora. To both this only made the virtue of the book 
appeal more strongly. 

Passing into her tent the gypsy rummaged in the 
family treasure box. Returning a few moments later 
she handed him a sadly worn and dilapidated Mexican 
mass-book. The cover was loose, several of the pages 
were missing. It was held together by a shoestring. 
Sylvestre received it from her with grave respect. When 
she untied the shoestring and showed him a decorated 
flyleaf, — the Virgin with the Holy Babe in her arms, 


180 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


surrounded by a border of wreathed flowers, — he crossed 
himself. If anything could help, this surely ought. 
That same evening he hid the book in Lisa’s tent amid 
the dry cedar branches under the strip of old sailcloth 
that served her for a bed. 

She did not find it for a day or two. When she did 
she asked no questions. Because she had seen no book 
for many months, because any book seemed a refuge 
from the restless, reiterative misery of her own thoughts, 
she took it with her to the orchard. 

Of a temperament susceptible to outward forms and 
symbols, Lisa, had she been sent to a convent school, 
would have made a good Catholic; — which might or 
mightn’t have changed things. 

The old mass-book with its rhythmic repetitions, the 
tattered flyleaf, wreathed in flowers, brought a strange 
stirring of comfort. At first Lisa read only to distract 
herself ; but little by little the compelling power of 
reiterative suggestion assumed a sort of automatic con- 
trol over her mind : — 

“Oh Virgen Maria! madre dolorosa , mas afligida que 
todas las madres del mundo . . . .” 

Throughout all Mexico, at all hours of the day and 
night, thousands knelt and prayed at that mild shrine: 
— “Oh Virgen Maria! madre de pecadores. . . .” Even 
in the crude colors of the flyleaf, how tenderly she held 
her child ! 

Lisa’s vision swam. . . . The picture wavered, mag- 
nified itself, — seemed to rise and float. . . . 

There was a fragrance. ... A bright and breathless 
stillness. . . . 


TATCHO ROMANO AND MONGREL 181 


For one moment only, through healing tears, Lisa 
looked up into the face of her own lost baby. ... It 
was the Child in the picture, — and yet it was her child ! 

The grave was not the end! 

Something in her frozen heart seemed to melt and 
break. With a strangled sob Lisa dropped her head 
on the forlorn old book. . . . 

When at last she looked up from her weeping, it was 
as if she had taken off dark glasses. Wild sunflowers 
had followed the poppies and mustard in the old or- 
chard. A little white kid sucked its mother, — the two 
half hidden in the coarse sedgy grass. The revivified 
green of the fig trees, the silvery shimmer of olive-leaves 
glittered against a cloudless sky. Over the shining 
stretches of the sea behind crossed bars of light like 
flaming spears, dropped the sun. . . . 

Slowly Lisa rose to her feet. In a bewildering flash 
came the thought: — “I must be good!” 

Always simple in her mental processes, this new re- 
solve appeared to herself more than half a revelation. 

With nothing of her own left to love or care for, she 
must go on loving. What the heart clings to it cannot 
utterly lose. For love is stronger than death, — even 
as the spirit is stronger than the body. Only through 
love could she be drawn up to God, where, after years 
and years, oh, rrmchos , rrmchos anos (surely the hope 
was a prayer!), she might again find herself one with 
Michael, — with her lost baby. . . . 

It was a day or two after this that Senora Cabrera 
got a fright. She heard Lisa laugh! 


182 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


The gypsy woman beckoned Sylvestre. Together 
they stole to the door of the tent. 

Inside Lisa had corraled seven of the little Cabreras. 
Evidently she had been planning to wash them. The 
children didn’t want to be washed. Mischievous as 
always, one boy had seized the bucket; — was frisking 
about with it, squealing, splashing everybody. All the 
others were dodging here and there, tumbling over each 
other, shrieking with laughter. Lisa, almost as much 
excited as the children, laughed, too ; till the baby asleep 
at the far end of the tent began to cry. Then she went 
to him, took him up. Soon he was crowing, snatching 
at her hair as she danced him in her arms. Unexpectedly 
Lisa made a dive for the bucket. There was enough 
water left to wash the baby; — and he was too little to 
run away ! 

“Bueno , — you don’t have to worry any more.” 
Senora Cabrera turned to Sylvestre, — patted him on 
the shoulder. “Once a senora who has lost her own 
takes another’s in her arms, it’s all right. . . . Just 
the same, too much water is no good. She wanted hers 
washed every morning! We all know what came of 
that. But I wouldn’t stop her to-day,” the dark 
weather-worn face softened almost to a look of beauty: 
— “not if she wanted to drown the whole litter ! I told 
you, brother, that was a powerful book. . . .” 

With the first days of early spring all was bustle and 
preparation in the gypsy camp. The women were busy 
putting the finishing touches to their reed baskets and 


,TATCHO ROMANO AND MONGREL 183 


cages. From daybreak to dusk Sylvestre’s lively whistle 
could be heard above the piping of the finches. 

In the old days the gypsies had trapped their own 
birds. Of recent years it had become the custom to 
buy a few good singers in the fall, and bring them to the 
island to train them through the winter. 

As the women finished their work, the finches and 
periqmtos were transferred to the little wicker cages 
from the large central breeding-cage. This big cage 
was built about a stunted live-oak with lopped limbs 
that stood in the middle of the clearing round which the 
tents were scattered. 

Seconding Sylvestre’s whistle and the chorus of the 
goldfinches rose the strains of Secundio’s fiddle. That 
was the one thing he did well. To play the fiddle was 
as natural to him as to the birds their song. Whatever 
the girls were doing, once Secundio began to play they 
would throw down their work, — chase each other about, 
dancing and singing. Morelia’s pretty little fourteen- 
year-old sister Tona was one of the wildest. . . . 

“Come along, you also!” Secundio invited Lisa, who 
stood by watching. “You’re none too old for dancing. 
... No heavy-foot, like my family cow!” 

But Lisa turned away sadly without any answer. 
She felt she would never want to dance again. 

Though she had long since learned the uselessness of 
asking questions, there was one practical everyday mat- 
ter that puzzled her. How was it with a fortune under 
their very hands in hides and dried meat the gypsies 
continued to pick up a precarious and vagabond living, 


184 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


peddling their birds, fiddling and fortune- telling at coun- 
try fairs and seaside resorts? 

One night when they were seated by the camp-fire 
she put it to Sylvestre : — 

“All these goats, — why, they’re not doing any good 
to anyone. There’s wool, and hides, and meat. . . . 
Thousands and thousands of dollars going to waste 
every year. . . .” 

“ Hermana , that’s as may be. But it wasn’t in the 
agreement; and we live according to our word. The 
Senor gave us certain rights on this island, — to them 
we hold. Valgame Dios!” Even in the dancing fire- 
glow she could see how his face darkened : — “The gypsy 
has few rights enough. . . . Move on ! move on ! If 
they want us to move on from here, — let them come 
try it. . . ” 

“Then you have permission to live on the Island?” 

“We have permission to live on the Island, to fish in 
the bay, and get water from the cedar spring. You 
know we kill a goat now and then — when meat is neces- 
sary. But we make no traffic out of it. . . . Many 
years ago was the agreement made. Does a man wear 
out his word, as he wears out the coat on his back? 
Christ’s blood ! We’ve held to our end of the contract. 
El Senor shall never find himself one centavo the poorer 
for what he promised us. . . . If there are others who 
think they have a better right here, — let them come 
fight for it !” 

Lisa smiled to herself. Sylvestre, who hadn’t a 
scruple against picking the pockets or burning the barns 
of any against whom he considered himself to have a 


TATCHO ROMANO AND MONGREL 185 


grudge, would go hungry and ragged before he would 
overstep the conditions made with a vanished friend. 
She understood. . . . However much she might resent 
the imputation of gypsy blood, there were ways in which 
Lisa thought like a gypsy. 

Secundio had always been an unlucky sort of chap. 
Short, squat, heavy-built for his race, he possessed 
little of that quick tact and ready magnetism that is 
the gypsies’ chief capital. The one thing he did well 
was to fiddle ; and he was too lazy and good-for-nothing 
to bring in anything much even at that. Only Morelia 
and her gift at la buenaventura kept the family up. 
When Secundio did attempt business on his own ac- 
count it was sure to be some dirty underhand trick a 
tatcho Romano would have despised. . . . There was 
more disgust than surprise, then, when he came limping 
up the beach one evening just past twilight, — a bullet- 
hole through the leg, — caught (had he ever been known 
to put anything over?) smuggling hides! 

A brush with the customs-guards was the last thing 
to be desired ! In the past seasons of drought, of sparse- 
ness, the gypsies had held their best title to their camp- 
intg-ground. Now, with green headlands, with the stock 
on the increase, with a promise of sure profits ahead, 
the tribe had received more than one hint of the plans 
of certain powerful commercial interests touching “Goat 
Island.” 

A half-century-old verbal agreement made with a 
refugee land-owner, -^-what court would consider it? 
What court ever took the word of a gypsy ! The most 


186 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


likely result of Secundio’s mishap was a boat-load of 
soldiers, — a volley of buckshot. . . . 

To bend is better than to break. According to ap- 
proved Romano tactics it seemed desirable, at least 
temporarily, to evacuate the island. The move was 
entirely in order; — with spring came the trail north- 
ward. . . . They would strike their tents. Men, women 
and children, the entire horde, — some thirty in all, — 
take to the boats. ... A month or two of wandering, 
and back they would drift in small parties, casually, 
unostentatiously. . . . Even had the island come under 
control of the new management, it was more than prob- 
able they would be able to resume their winter quarters 
unquestioned. Sea-gulls or gitanos , big business wasn’t 
likely to notice much, — if the trick were managed right. 

For a proper send-off there was to be a feast: — goats 
were killed, fish were caught, squirrels and rabbits. 
The usual frijoles and tortillas with quantities of red 
hot chile made ready. For two days the women were at 
it, cooking things up, either on improvised spits turned 
over glowing coals, in bubbling kettles, or roasted in 
a pit covered over with hot ashes and stones. Lisa, 
Tona, some of the Cabrera boys, went out to gather 
blackberries. Senora Cabrera had promised some of 
her celebrated little sweet cakes. 

While the women and girls busied themselves over 
the camp-fires, the men were down on the beach working 
at the boats. Every rickety old tub was pulled in, 
examined for leaks. Amid the noise of the hammers, 
the clatter of women, the children ran and screamed. 

The third day everything was ready. By mid-after- 


TATCHO ROMANO AND MONGREL 187 


noon the gypsies began to assemble, seating themselves 
in small parties here and there in the open space that 
surrounded the now empty central breeding-cage ; — all 
the canaries and periquitos having been already trans- 
ferred. 

There was a great deal of joking and good-natured 
horseplay. Everybody ate with gusto. Pulque and 
aguardiente went* the rounds. By evening the fires be- 
gan to blossom out like red flowers. Then came story- 
telling, singing, dancing. . . . Secundio, more than 
half-seas over, forgetting his sullen grievance, played 
like the devil himself! 

The men shot off their guns. The girls shrieked. 
The dogs barked. Hour after hour they kept it up ; — 
laughing, whirling, gesticulating. . . . The rhythmic 
pat of their feet was in itself an invitation. . . . Where 
one dropped out another joined in, — with a zest, a care- 
less vivacity* a spontaneous abandonment to pleasure 
that knew neither fatigue nor thought of the morrow. 

The stars were dimming in the sky when the party 
dispersed. A brief hour’s sleep. With sunrise they; 
must be up again and off. . . . 

A salvo of shots shattered the silence. ... A terrified 
shriek of a woman. . . . Shouts, oaths, the scream of 
a child. . . . More shots, — the groan of a man in death 
agony. ... 

Caught asleep, unarmed, the gypsies made no attempt 
at defense. Running, leaping, falling in the half-light, 
taking advantage of every rock and gully, they scattered 
like so many rabbits. The one thought was to make 


188 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


the boats, moored and waiting since the afternoon 
before at the month of the salt-water creek. 

As far as that was concerned, there was no reason 
why they should not have been allowed to go openly. 
The only order received by the military had been to 
clear the island. But to the Mexican his own idea of 
sport. . . . Something bobbing back of those rocks 
yonder? Bueno ! Good shot! . . . 

Sylvestre and Lisa were first to reach the boats. 
Sylvestre’s little dory, lightest and swiftest of the gypsy 
fleet, headed the line, — since he had been chosen leader 
of the morning’s debarkation. 

Now it was every man for himself. Wading into the 
creek he drew in the boat, steadying it for Lisa. Sever- 
ing the moorings with one stroke of the knife, he him- 
self was about to leap in, — when running, struggling 
through the long wet grass, appeared Morelia and Toha. 
They had Secundio between them ; — were half dragging 
him along, — he cursing, stumbling, retarded by his 
lameness. 

“ Andale ! Andale!” Sylvestre stood one foot on the 
edge of the boat. . . . 

Already Lisa had unshipped the oars. 

The two girls, panting, breathless, put up a last de- 
spairing spurt. In a moment they were over the side ; — - 
Secundio floundering after. . . . Awkwardly enough he 
missed his grip, — slipped and rolled back into the 
swampy grass. . . . 

Sylvestre leaned over to give him a hand. As the 
two regained their equilibrium Secundio happened to 
glance over his shoulder. At the same moment he 


TATCHO ROMANO AND MONGREL 189 


ducked, — managed somehow to shove himself between 
Sylvestre, and the boat. . . . 

There was the crack of a rifle. ... A queer choking 
gasp. . . . 

Sylvestre straightened, — both hands clutched at his 
breast. . . . He wavered, seemed to step back; then 
doubled over and sank out of sight among the 
rushes. . . . 

Secundio was now in the boat. Coolly Morelia pushed 
off. 

“Wait! wait!” Lisa sprang to her feet. 

“Down, you fool!” Secundio gripped her. . . . She 
turned, tried desperately to free herself. . . . 

With a bludgeonlike blow he struck her full in the 
face; threw. her to the bottom of the boat and put his 
foot on her neck. . . . 

Morelia, bending to the oars, laughed. 

At the little fishing village where they had sold Syl- 
vestre’s boat, they had bought a tent and a donkey. 
Then, instead of waiting for the others and taking the 
accustomed route north to the border, they made for 
the Colorado River and struck across into Sonora. 
No one but outcasts would have chosen that desert 
trail. . . . 

Camping and wandering, wandering and camping, they 
worked their way gradually west toward Cananea and 
the mines. Early in the fall Morelia’s baby had been 
born. The following afternoon they were on their way 
again. But the baby was sickly from the first. It made 
travelling difficult. So they decided to stop over for 


190 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


a while and give him a chance to get strong. Most of 
Secundio’s time was spent drinking in the cantinas of 
the wretched little adjacent settlement. Some days he 
would take Lisa and Tona with him to dance and tell 
fortunes ; but more often they tramped the country from 
ranch-house to ranch-house, begging, peddling their little 
baskets. Anything to bring in a few pennies. If they 
came home without the pennies, Secundio beat them with 
his heavy walking-stick while Morelia stood by and 
laughed. Many a night had Lisa gone to bed, bruised, 
black-and-blue, aching in every bone. She hated herself 
for being so afraid of Secundio. She had come to cower 
if he looked at her, — to tremble at the sound of his 
voice. 

There was no limit to the degradation he would force 
on her. She was made to lie, to beg, to steal. At first 
she had told him that she could not dance. The low 
cantina, reeking with smoke, the evil faces of the men, 
sickened her. But Secundio knew a cure for that kind of 
foolishness. After refusing once, she never refused 
again ! 

Standing, her back against the wall, she would wait 
his signal. He did not have to speak; but summoned 
her with a motion of his bow. Sometimes Tona danced, 
too. Both girls kept their eyes fixed on Secundio. He 
not only played for them; but actually conducted them, 
— as a first violin conducts the other instruments. It 
was not easy to satisfy him. An angry jerk of the 
head would send Tona back to her station against the 
wall. Then Lisa danced on alone. And, strangely, once 
she had begun to dance, the old delight repossessed her. 


TATCHO ROMANO AND MONGREL 191 


She was no longer frightened, no longer quelled. It 
seemed to Lisa dancing, as if she herself shook music 
from her limbs, — as a flower swaying in the wind shakes 
perfume from its petals. . . . 

Sometimes it happened after the dance a man would 
try to brush acquaintance. Then Lisa must drink with 
him; must listen to his love-making; tell his fortune, 
perhaps; take his money, — and slip away as best she 
could. . . . “Get what you can, and don’t give any- 
thing in return.” Those were Secundio’s instructions. 
In that one respect his tyranny proved a sort of rough 
protection. Everybody was afraid of the evil-looking 
gypsy with his ugly stick. 

Perhaps, had she been nothing but that which she 
appeared to be, Lisa would before this have given her 
companions the slip and struck off for herself. It had 
been her timidity that had held her back. Indeed, a 
true gitana might have hesitated to trust herself alone, 
to the road in Mexico those days. After four years of 
bloodshot, kaleidoscopic revolutionary changes, any 
name — Villa, Obregon, Carranza — was good enough to 
conjure loot with. Sonora, less harried than its sister 
state, had still its share of scattered “rebel” bands and 
glorious “de facto ” heroes. As between the boa con- 
strictor and the Bengal tiger, “wis was wis” did not seem 
to matter much to the victims. So that even the cruelty 
of Secundio’s beatings, Morelia’s malignant triumph, 
had in a way been protection. 

But now with Secundio’s odious drunken love-making, 
with Morelia’s snakelike jealousy aroused, the situation 


192 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


was impregnated with a new danger. Lisa felt it in 
every quivering fiber. . . . 

She must get away. She must get away, — before 
“anything happened !” 

The one ray of light that glimmered through the 
blackness of her befogged and weary misery as she lay 
that night in the mouth of the sandy wash, tortured for 
water, yet afraid to move or stir from her hiding-hole, 
was the thought that in the morning they would be going 
on to Cerro Gordo. The K. C. Cattle Company was 
having a round-up there — and the big K. C. was an 
American outfit ! Oh, the good Americans ! In the last 
few months of degraded wretchedness, Lisa’s thoughts 
even toward Philip had softened. . . . To-morrow at 
the round-up there must surely come a chance ! If only 
something did not happen first. . . . 

Suddenly Lisa began to shake and tremble. Between 
her and the starlit sky had loomed a shadow. It was 
creeping closer. ... It blocked the mouth of the 
shelter. . . . 

“Sister, — are you awake !” Tona, warm and friendly, 
squatted by her side. . . . “Oh, sister, — he didn’t beat 
you?” 

“No, hermanita. . . .” 

“Are you hungry? I’ve brought you some milk. . . 

“Thanks, dear. . . .” 

“Oh, sister,” a bubble of stifled childish laughter: — 
“you ought to have been there! Such fun! I’d just 
chosen my vaca and driven her down the bank behind 
some bushes when along comes the hombre. . . . An old, 
old man — blind as an owl. He called and he tramped 


TATCHO ROMANO AND MONGREL 193 

about. And there I sat, milking so nicely into my little 
bucket! When I finished, I gave her a slap. Up she 
went! The old man swore at her, — but never saw she 
had been milked at all.” 

“Well, it’s time to go to sleep, now. . . 

“Yes, sister. . . Tona crept closer, snuggled down. 
“There are soldiers at Cerro Gordo ; and vaqueros from 
all over the country will have ridden in to the round- 
up. . . . There’s a grand Americano store they say. 
I have my dinero all safe. Two red hair-ribbons. . . . 
I’d give one to you; — but then, I have two braids, you 
see. . . .” 

“I don’t want the ribbon, hermanita. Chito ! go to 
sleep. . . .” 

Next morning they made an early start. The air 
was light and sparkling. The sunlight seemed actually 
to gild the dun road, the gray hills. Birds twittered 
and flashed in the chaparral. Gradually, as they pro- 
gressed, the sage gave way to sparse rolling grass-lands, 
dotted here and there with juniper arid pmon. 

Lisa and Tona gathered juniper berries. They 
plaited them in their braids, and wove them into the 
horsehair chains from which their little baskets hung. 
Morelia had nothing but sullen looks. With a black eye 
and a limp she lagged in the rear. The baby was sick 
as usual. Secundio with his fiddle swaggered on ahead, 
— now thwacking the sides of the lean little over-laden 
donkey, again taking a vicious cut at the dog. Never 
did he feel so important, so almost like a virtuous citizen, 
as after beating up one of his womenfolk. And, lazy as 
he was, he really enjoyed fiddling at a dance. 


CHAPTER XIV 


HOW MORELLA TOLD LA BUENAVENTURA 

T HE Kelly Cameron Cattle Company was a Cali- 
fornia concern with offices on the fifth floor of the 
Sierra Madre Bank building, Third and Main, Los 
Angeles. ... A far cry, that, to the desolate sun- 
parched wind-swept ranges of northern Sonora ! Yet 
from Capitan to Lobo, from Los Pinos to Mesa, it 
would have been hard to find any petty jef e-politico too 
narrow-minded, any peon too sluggish, any Indian too 
benighted, not to take an interest, — likely and per- 
sonal, — in the business policies of the big K. C. 

There was a reason ; — or rather there were several of 
them. 

“Damn buzzards ! I never did aim to be called a 
quitter. But I reckon you’re doin’ the only thing there 
is lef’ to do, Mr. Kelly.” 

Big Bill Tobin, ranch foreman and range-boss, rose, 
stretched himself in the moonlight. Anybody who saw 
Big Bill stretch realized all over again what a giant of 
a fellow he really was, and couldn’t but wonder a little 
at the gentle diffident drawl of him : — 

“A man must have the guts of a worm to run cattle 
in Mexico these days. . . .” He lounged to the edge 
194 


MORELLA TOLD LA BUENAVENTURA 195 


of the gallery, stood looking across the intervening 
stretches of moon-drenched chaparral to the clustered 
lights of Cerro Gordo winking up out of the valley like 
little stars caught in an earthenware bowl: — “A fine 
country, too. As fine a cow country as anyone could 
wish, — barrin’ the varmints that infest it. Mexicans, 
Yaquis, coyotes, — all the same breed at heart. . . 

“Do they realize yet what I’m down here for?” 

Charles Kelly’s voice had a clipped directness after 
the soft elisions of the big Texan. 

“Who knows what a Mex knows? . . . But if they 
know, I don’t see how they know. Reckon maybe so 
they’re study in’ about it.” 

Kelly gave a short laugh, — struck a match, relit his 
cigar and seated himself on the top step of the gallery. 
Tobin, having rolled a cigarette, sat down beside him. 

For a while the two men smoked in silence. The thing 
all the boys liked about young Kelly was his companion- 
ableness. It wasn’t a pose with him, either, as it is with 
the sons of some big cowmen. As a youngster, Charles 
had spent most of his vacations on the range, and always 
with the explicit understanding, — orders from “the old 
man” himself, — that he was to be treated like any other 
hand. More than once Big Bill had had to call the 
boy down for some piece of youthful “freshness,” of 
reckless daredeviltry. Both men found it pleasant to 
remember those days; and since neither presumed on 
the remembrance, the friendship between them was as 
deep-rooted as it was genuine. 

“Good Lord, Tobin! . . . When I think of all the old 
man has put into this God-forsaken country. . . 


196 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


The ashy tip of Charles’ cigar glowed to sudden fiery 
intensity: — “it makes me hot! I never aimed to be 
called a quitter, either. But there’s nothing else we 
can do. . . . He’s taken two trips to Washington. They 
won’t listen to anything and they don’t want to under- 
stand anything that doesn’t fit in with their own 
theories. . . . Maybe something will develop twenty 
3^ears from now from all this ‘watchful-waiting’ confer- 
ence business. . . . All I know is, a year more of present 
conditions will break the strongest of us. . . . Why, — 
there’s been enough beef stolen from this outfit alone 
in the last twelve-month, — to feed Belgium! And we 
don’t even save the hides. . . . Add to that, taxes and 
levies. . . 

“I reckon you’ve found the only way out, Mr. 
Kelly. ...” 

“Yes, for us there is this way. But for the little man, 
— the man nobody ever hears anything about. . . 

“Like Tod Hunter for instance. . . .” 

“Poor devil! I always liked Tod. He was wagon- 
boss that first year I went with the outfit up on the 
Bonita. . . 

“Yes, sir, — nice quiet feller. . . . Married ol’ man 
Smedley’s girl over Cananea way. Pretty little woman, 
— and two of the finest kids. Up to three years ago 
Tod was doin’ well. . . . But you wouldn’t have found 
much to recognize him by, Mr. Kelly, — the day we 
brought the body in. . . . What kinder knocked me 
out, — it happened to be one o’ the kids’ birthdays. Mrs. 
Hunter she’d baked a cake. . . . They done some watch- 
ful waitin’ themselves, I reckon. Anyway, about sun- 


MORELLA TOLD LA BUENAVENTURA 197 


down when Tod didn’t come, off they set to look for him. 
You know how it is on lots of these little ranches, — only 
her and him and the two kids. . . . When they did find 
him, Mrs. Hunter said, all she could think of was keepin’ 
the coyotes off. Big feller like that, — what else was 
there they could do? So there they sat with their little 
fire. . . . And there we came on them in the mornin’. 
. . . Not a hoof left in the pasture. . . 

“ ‘Yaquis?’ ” 

“‘Yaquis’ — yes, sir. ... Of course. . . . Same brand, 
I reckon, as raided our horse-camp last winter, just 
about the time the Constitutionalists happened to be 
needin’ cavalry mounts so bad. . . 

“Lo, the poor Indian! It seems he has his uses. 
Damn such a country, anyway ! Well, — what I’m won- 
dering is whether those chaps down yonder are on yet?” 
He nodded toward the lights in the valley. . . . “Catch 
the sound of the fiddle?” 

“Oh, they’d be dancin,’ Mr. Kelly. A vaguer o' $ got 
to have his dance. Ten to one, some of our own boys 
have sneaked down. . . .You reckon there ain’t going 
to be any trouble about inspection or permits?” 

“There’ll not be any trouble,” young Kelly answered 
succinctly. 

The foreman chuckled. 

This was Saturday evening. The Wednesday pre- 
ceding, out of a clear sky, unannounced and unexpected, 
even by Big Bill Tobin himself, Mr. Charles Kelly had 
ridden into Cerro Gordo at the head of his cowboy 
horde. ... A hundred and fifty shouting, cheering 
gringos, — if there was one ! Kelly, it would appear, had 


198 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


picked up every foot-loose hand on his way over the 
border. 

To this force was promptly added another fifty men, 
— local vaqueros , and the small independent rancheros 
of the vicinity. For three successive days the K. C. 
ranges and outlying country from Todos Santos canon 
on to the Bonita, had been raked and combed. 

Yet once the herds were gathered and driven into 
ranch headquarters at Cerro Gordo the local men found 
themselves let out. It wasn’t just a matter of the fall 
branding, then? 

Doubtless, as Big Bill Tobin opined, there were a 
good many people “studyin’ ” the problem. . . . 

Faintly across the moon-drenched stretches of chap- 
arral quavered the lilt of the fiddle. 

“Well, sir,” Tobin rose, shook himself: — “reckon I’d 
better ride down and round up any of our fellows that 
have managed to give old Saunders the slip. We’ll be 
needin’ all hands in the mornin’. . . 

“Right you are,” Kelly rose, too. He was a well- 
set-up young fellow, — personable in his easy-going 
ranchman’s habiliments, flannel shirt, boots, spurs. Yet 
something in the look of the eye, the dipt enunciation, 
announced the up-to-date American business man. . . . 
“If Peters gets in with his bunch, — and I don’t see why 
he shouldn’t. . . 

“It ain’t necessary for you to come, Mr. Kelly.” 

“Bill, you old sea-serpent. ... I believe what you’re 
out after is a dance yourself ! Hold on a minute. . . .” 
Charles stepped through the open door to the ranch 


MORELLA TOLD LA BUENAVENTURA 199 


kitchen. When he came back he was buckling a belt 
under his loose coat. 

Tobin smiled companionably. Like all the rest of the 
K. C. outfit, he packed his gun on his saddle. . . . 

It made Morelia furious to see Lisa dancing, the 
glistening rime of berries in her cloud-dusk hair. Like 
a bird, she was, free and joyous in her movements; — 
her grave young face, pale yet luminous ; unconscious of 
the squalid Heat and stench of the ccmtma , indifferent to 
the shouts of the dark-faced, swaying crowd of hawk- 
eyed men. 

Who to look at her this evening would ever dream she 
had been tramping all day in the sun? 

It was always so when Lisa danced. Her delight in 
her art was spontaneous, ineradicable, — a spirit that 
lived in her spirit. Something entirely independent of 
the conditions that surrounded her, — something inde- 
pendent of her own personality it almost seemed. 

Floating, drifting, now slow, now fast, without effort 
or fatigue, weaving, gliding like captive moonlight, she 
followed the enchanted fantasies of Secundio’s flying 
bow. . . . 

Now and then some half-drunken vaqwero threw a 
coin. Then Tona in her bright red ribbons would dart 
out and pick it up. . . . Lisa never stooped for the 
money. 

The sight was like poison to Morelia. Here she sat 
with a black eye, a game leg, a sick baby. . . . What 
good did it do for her to place herself near the door, 
her fortune-telling cards spread out before her? No 


200 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


one gave her a look. Two years had she been respect- 
ably married, and all that had come of it was abuse, 
ill-treatment, neglect. Lisa, never married at all, far 
from respectable, was still — la Reina! 

There was vitriol in the thought. . . . 

A stir in the doorway, a jangle of spurs, attracted 
Morelia’s attention. 

Two gringo gentlemen had drawn up in the street 
before the cantina , had swung from the saddle, were 
already on the threshold. It was the young Senor 
Charles Kelly and his big foreman. Morelia had no 
trouble placing them. 

A gypsy woman, especially a fortune-telling gypsy 
woman, is not two hours in any town before she has 
learned the names, the faces, picked up whatever other 
stray bits of information as are to be gathered about 
the chief notables of the place. . . . 

“Senores ! senores ! I tell la buenaventura. By the 
hand or by the cards. . . .” 

They did not even turn. 

“Senores, — in the morning you go a journey. . . . 
But I see a little cloud. . . .” 

Like all the others they pushed past Morelia and 
stood to watch the dance. 

“Extraordinary. . . . By Jove, Tobin! That girl 
could make her fortune on the stage. . . 

Charles threw a coin. 

For the first time Lisa darted forward. . . . People 
thought it was because the money was gold. 

At the same moment, pushing through the crowd, 
strutted a spruce little Mexican captain. He had 


MORELLA TOLD LA BUENAVENTURA 201 

crossed from the military barracks on the opposite side 
of the plaza just as the two gringos dismounted. 

Now, shoving, elbowing his way to them, he tapped 
Charles insolently on the shoulder : — 

“Senor, I understand you move your herds. There 
are certain formalities. . . .” 

“I don’t speak Spanish. You’ll have to excuse me, 
captain.” 

Pretty good, that, for a man practically raised on 
the range, personally known to every vaquero within 
hearing! “Come on, Tobin. None of our boys 
here. . . 

Insolence for insolence. 

The little officer side-stepped, sputtered, and gri- 
maced, as the huge Texan (inadvertently, of course!) 
landed a heavy foot on a too tightly booted military- 
toe. . . . 

“ Maldito !” The beady eyes shot spite. Then 
lighted to a look of surprised pleasure as they fell on 
the gypsy dance-girl with the frost of berries in her 
hair. 

Lisa had broken off in the dance. Not even stooping 
to the gold at her feet (American gold at that!), she 
stood arrested. . . . Her body bent forward, — looking, 
looking, after the two gringos who had already disap- 
peared into the street. 

“Dirty swine!” The bantam captain straightened. 
Himself flung a coin: — “Come, my beauty. ... No 
true gitana has eyes for gringo pigs. . . .” 

The crowd had begun to shuffle and stamp, — to strike 
their hands together. They wanted .another dance. . . . 


202 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


Secundio motioned to Lisa with his bow. 

As always, she obeyed. But this time it was me- 
chanically. There was no spring, no vitality left in her 
movements. She must be tired, people thought. 

As she danced the bantam stood making eyes at her. 
He smirked and winked, — twirled his little mustache. 

After a round or two her arms fell to her sides. When 
the little officer threw a second coin, accompanied by 
the obvious signal that she was to follow him (with the 
usual conceit of his kind he supposed she had stopped 
dancing for no other purpose), she shrank away, hiding 
herself in the shadows back of Secundio. . . . 

Already a new dance was on, — a two-step in which 
everybody wanted to join. 

“ Maldito !” The disappointed bantam, feeling himself 
tricked, held up to ridicule for the second time that 
evening, elbows extended, jerked and jostled his way 
to the door. 

“Captain! My little Captain! I tell la buenaven - 
tura. . . .” 

He was passing without so much as a glance. 

“My captain is lucky, — in love as in war. . . . (You 
desire that girl ?)” The last words were more a motion 
of the lips than a sound. 

The officer stopped, stretched his open palm across 
the table. The gypsy bent to it: — 

“There is promotion in store for my captain. . . . 
( How mach?)” 

He made a quick gesture with the fingers of his free 
hand. 

“And honorable wounds, — but a happy recovery. . . . 


MORELLA TOLD LA BUENAVENTURA 203 


{That is not enough. . . . She brings more dancing . 

. . .)” 

The sum was doubled. 

“{Bueno!) Good fortune attends my little captain. 
{We will pass the barracks , — she and 7, in fifteen nun- 
utes. Have two of yonr men waiting m the shadow of 
the arch. . . .)” 

The soldier threw a coin on the table and passed out. 
Morelia shuffled and spread her cards, — then sat back 
watching the dance. The expression in her eyes was 
entirely satisfied and cheerful. 

After a while she beckoned Lisa : — “I see you’re tired. 
We can go now, — us two. You’ve done pretty well to- 
night. . . .” Her tone was fawning and full of flattery. 
“We’ll get to the tent ahead of the others and make some 
hot coffee. . . 

Kelly and Tobin had made the rounds of the cantinas 
and extracted three grinning, shame-faced cowboys. 
Now the five of them clattered through town on their 
way back to the ranch. 

The moonlight flooded everything. It shone on a 
dead cat in a stew of garbage in the gutter; on a spotted 
pig and a brown baby asleep together in an open door- 
way. It turned the bare and squalid makeshift of a 
plaza to a sea of living silver. It silhouetted for a brief 
instant the hurrying figures of two women just disap- 
pearing into the shadow flung by the entrance arch of 
the barracks at the corner. . . . 

Charles could not get the thought of the gypsy dance- 
girl out of his head. 


204 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


“Extraordinary!” he kept repeating to himself. At 
the best he was not blest with an abundant flow of 
adjectives; and to-night the very quality of his admira- 
tion limited them. “That was what she was, — extraor- 
dinary. ...” 

Again the lilt of the fiddle. . . . 

How she had danced ! Broadway would make a queen 
of her. . . . And she had looked at him. . . . Natu- 
rally, — all gitanas looked. But her eyes. . . . ! 

They were half way across the plaza. Just ahead of 
them like a black velvet cloak flung down in the moon- 
light lay the shadow of the archway. . . . 

“Help! help! oh , help!” 

For an instant the five Americans reined up. . . . 
Why did the cry ring so strangely? What made their 
hearts leap and race to it, — even as at the goad of the 
spur their horses leapt and raced. . . . 

“ Help !” 

And they knew. ... It was the voice, the language 
of one of their own ! 

A gush of scratching, scuffling undertones from the 
archway. . . . 

“Steady, boys!” 

Kelly plunged ahead of the others into that struggling 
shadowy confusion at the gate. 

“Don’t shoot ! Don’t shoot till I give the word. . . 

For a moment the heavy clustering darkness put him 
at a disadvantage. He had clubbed his own revolver. 
But to attack might mean. . . . 

She was fighting, fighting like a little wildcat. . . . 
He could make out now the delicate slender savagery of 


MORELLA TOLD LA BUENAVENTURA 205 


her, — as she twisted and flung herself about. There 
were three men. He had thought at first there must be 
half a dozen. . . . 

Freeing one foot Charles caught the nearest with a 
vicious kick under the chin. He stumbled, — dragged 
down his companions. . . . 

With a leap the girl had disengaged herself. Charles 
felt her clutching hands at his stirrup. . . . God ! she’d 
be trampled yet. . . . 

He swung down towards her. . . . Caught her by 
the arms, — half jerked, half dragged her up. . . . 

At the same moment the barracks door flung back. 
A rabble of soldiery tumbled and swarmed about 
them. . . . 

“Blaze away, boys. . . . I’ve got her. . . V 9 

It was only their mounts that saved the Americans. 
Outnumbered twenty to one, they made a dash for it. 
And, fortunately, even across the moon-washed spaces 
of the plaza the Mexicans shot wild. 

Free of the town they slackened their pace. The 
arms that had been clutching Kelly so frantically re- 
laxed. He looked down to smile his reassurance ; — and 
the smile turned to an incredulous gasp. For the girl 
in front of him was the gypsy dance-girl ! 


CHAPTER XV 


THE GOOD AMERICANS 

T HAT night Lisa slept in a bed. A little white- 
painted iron bed with clean sheets, warm woolen 
blankets, and a blue sateen quilt with pink roses. . . . 

Not that the K. C. was in the habit of providing sheets 
and sateen quilts for its cowpunchers. But this was 
ranch headquarters where Big Bill Tobin, after sixteen 
years’ faithful service, ran things very much as he 
pleased. 

In pre-revolutionary days two pretty Texas nieces 
had been in the habit of coming to spend part of every 
summer vacation with Bill on the ranch. Naturally, 
Charles had fallen in love with the prettier; but Bill 
with his usual savoir faire and easy tact had handled 
the affair so that there were neither hard feelings nor 
broken hearts. The prettier niece was now Mrs. Sandy 
McCabe, of Naco, Arizona, with two fine strapping 
boys, — to the eldest of which Charles had stood god- 
father. 

Though, owing to the unsettled condition of the coun- 
try, the nieces had made no visit to the ranch for over 
two years now, their room was always ready. There 
were pictures cut from the Sunday Art-Supplements on 
the walls, and a home-made dressing-table with a white 
enameled mirror over it. 


206 


THE GOOD AMERICANS 


207 , 


So, when in answer to Charles’s explosive : — 

“What in the Name of God. . . (a Mexican git ana 
being the last solution any of them had expected to the 
riddle of the voice toward which they had leapt) — all 
Lisa seemed able to do was to repeat : — 

“I am not a gypsy! Oh, I am not a gypsy!” till 
suddenly she fell to trembling and to crying. Big Bill 
out of his long experience with nieces knew just how to 
pat her on the back and say : — 

“There, there, now. . . .” 

Then turning to the astounded and deeply embar- 
rassed Charles, whose hand Lisa had seized and was 
covering with her tears and her kisses. . . . (By this 
time they were on the ranch-house gallery and knew they 
were not being pursued) : — 

“All she wants is a chance to rest herself and wash 
up a bit. A good tea-kettle of hot water. ...” (No 
cowpuncher who hadn’t had experience in nieces could 
possibly have thought of a tea-kettle of hot water . . .) 
“And a night’s sleep ! Why, — she’ll be as fresh as a 
daisy in the mornin’. . . .” 

“And, oh ! I have been to school. . . .” Lisa could 
not bear they should think her utterly a savage. “I 
won’t make any trouble. I won’t cry . . . any more. 
It was just, — just — the sound of your voices. . . .” 
“There, there now !” said Big Bill. 

When they led her to the room and she saw the little 
white bed with its blue sateen quilt and the dressing-table 
and the white mirror, she stood for a moment with 
clasped hands. Then slowly turned to the men in the 
door : — 


208 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


“No, senores,” the soft courteous Spanish syllables 
slipping unconsciously from her lips — “I am not a 
gypsy. But for more than a year I have lived with 
the gypsies. And to find myself among American gen- 
tlemen again. . . . Ah! It is impossible — you should 
understand. . . 

The men in the doorway dropped their eyes. Then 
without saying anything at all, they turned and went 
sway to give the little white bed and the kettle of hot 
water a chance. 

Next morning, before the sky had begun to lighten 
even, Lisa heard them stirring. It was Charles who 
knocked at her door. 

“Awfully sorry to disturb you. But — we’re making 
an early start. . . 

What Lisa never knew was that they had taken it 
turn about to watch on the gallery through the night. It 
wasn’t likely the Mexicans would organize an attack on 
the ranch-house, since the Americans, all told, out- 
numbered the ragamuffin garrison at Cerro Gordo. Still, 
the bulk of the hands were on the mesa with the herd 
half a mile out. These days in Mexico one couldn’t 
be too careful. So they put a light in the window for 
the express benefit of their friends below, and kept 
watch turn about on the gallery. . . . 

Lisa dressed as rapidly as she could. Once dressed, 
however, she stood dissatisfied before the mirror. 

“I do look like a gypsy,” was her thought. 

She unplaited her hair and tried to re-arrange it as 
she used to wear it at San Miguel, in a low knot at the 
nape of her neck. But with her sunburned face, her 


THE GOOD AMERICANS 


209 


gitana dress and necklace of little seashells, this was 
worse than ever. . . . 

“Anybody would take me for a half-and-half! . . ” 

She looked at the ring Michael had given her. It 
was all she had left out of the past ; — that and the watch 
she had sewed into the hem of her skirt for safe-keeping. 
It no longer seemed possible she would ever read the se- 
cret of that teasing monogram ; ever discover the reason 
why Mama Soledad, destitute and in want, should have 
kept hidden all those years an article, which, — for the 
value of the gold alone, — she might have sold. . . . 
What Lisa chiefly felt was that in the watch with its dim 
water-stained picture, she held proof — tangible proof 
to herself, at least) — of those haunting memories of 
storm, of shipwreck. . . . Proof, she believed, that her 
mother had not been a gypsy ! 

She sighed a little. . . . Then why, — if her mother 
wasn’t a gypsy, — should she, Lisa, have such gypsy- 
looking eyes? Sylvestre’s claim to cousinship had al- 
most passed out of her mind. She had never accepted 
it as anything more than his way of accounting for her 
presence on the Island; — a way that would leave them 
free to marry, and, if she wouldn’t listen to that, would 
still give him the right to take care of her. . . . 

Nothing to tell. . . . Nothing to show. . . .Nothing, 
nothing at all. Well, — she wasn’t going to make up any 
story. It was wicked to make up stories, — unless you 
were forced to. Secundio’s blackguardly subterfuges 
remained a memory of shame and loathing. . . . 

She re-plaited her hair gypsy style. 

Somehow the night in the little white bed with its 


210 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


clean sheets, its blue sateen quilt, had made Lisa know 
all over again, — that she must be good ! 

She found a spray of juniper berries not too much 
broken, placed it in her braids and made her way out 
to the kitchen. 

Charles met her in the door. 

“The boys haven’t finished breakfast yet,” he said. 
“I’ll fix you up right here in this corner. Awfully de- 
cent set of chaps.” 

The kitchen was a long room with a pine plank floor 
and a heavy raftered ceiling. Because the ceiling was 
low, the windows seemed to be set high. This morning 
they gave no light from the outside; but reflected back 
the yellow gleam of the kerosene lamps against the walls. 
Somehow the impression Lisa got as Charles piloted her 
down the room was one of warmth, and hurry, and in- 
tentness : — a crude sort of masculine comfort that 
thrilled and pricked to a subdued sense of purpose, of 
excitement. . . . 

On benches either side of two long tables some sixty 
cowpunchers were shoveling in food. There is no known 
species of biped, barring perhaps the ostrich, that can 
dispose of its provender with more celerity and dispatch 
than the average American cowboy. 

This first relay, keen with the hunger of youth after 
“last guard” on the mesa, made it a point of honor to 
polish off their plates, fling themselves aboard their 
waiting ponies, and tear back to the relief of their 
famished brethren with the herd. 

Wong Lee, the bland, smiling-faced Chinese cook, and 
his two Mexican swampers shuttled back and forth be- 


THE GOOD AMERICANS 


211 


tween the tables and the glowing range opposite the 
gallery door. Crackling cedar wood, sizzling bacon, 
mingled their scent with the hot oily smell of the kero- 
sene lamps and the still more penetrating aroma of boil- 
ing coffee. 

Charles himself waited on Lisa, bringing her besides 
the bacon and coffee, breakfast food, a tin of evaporated 
milk, and absolutely the best hot biscuit she had ever 
eaten in her life. 

“Hope you slept well. . . . We’re in an awful rush 
this morning.” 

Big Bill, turning from the wall-telephone over by the 
window, nodded his greeting : — 

“Everything O. K., Mr. Kelly. Peters and his bunch 
just in sight, Saunders says. . . .” 

As one man the boys still at table rose : — 

“Hi! yi! yi! Hi yi yi!” They were out of the door. 
With the queer half-flying scramble of their kind they 
were into the saddle and off, — tearing like wildcats over 
the hill. 

Big Bill was already on the gallery ; Charles, starting 
to follow, turned for a moment to Lisa : — 

“I must tell you, we’re off for the border, — just as 
soon as we can get a start. Clearing out of here, — lock, 
stock and barrel. ... I don’t know what your plans 
may be . . .” Then hastily, to the lost, imploring ter- 
ror in her eyes : — 

“Why, — of course. . . . That’s all right. We can 
fix you up with a mount. ... You ride?” 

“I used to ride, sometimes, senor, — at school. . . .” 


212 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


Lisa did so want to account for herself, — to show 
some “background” ! 

By this time the second ravenous relay was dis- 
mounting in front. Fringed chaps, jangling spurs, wide 
sombreros, they entered. Naturally, these boys must 
have been curious about the pretty gitana , the story of 
whose rescue had by this time spread. But they were, 
as Charles had vouched for them, an awfully decent set. 
Beyond the inevitable sideways glance, a shy nod or 
smile here and there, they applied themselves strictly to 
the business in hand, — stoking up conscientiously for 
a long day in the saddle, — joshing a little among them- 
selves; yet keen, set, alert, as if keyed to adventure. 
. . . So out and off again. 

“I’ll see you get something gentle.” Charles, too, was 
gone. 

Wong and his swampers now flung themselves on the 
deserted kitchen; — washing things up . . . packing 
things up. . . . 

Lisa, of course, had nothing to pack. She slipped 
out to the gallery. 

Already the herd must be under way. Above the 
first stirring twitter of the birds, through the cool misty 
reaches of the morning, came the cries of the cowboys, 
the lowing of the cattle. 

She could see them now, — vague, swarming masses, 
hunching and huddling down the slopes from the mesa. 

Tearing through the chaparral, whooping, swinging 
their ropes, the boys gradually worked them into long 
lurching lines that, skirting the town, would take the 


THE GOOD AMERICANS 


213 


trail where it wound up from Cerro Gordo northward 
over the plains. . . . 

Trotting in from the corrals at the back came Big 
Bill Tobin, a bald-faced bay in tow. 

“Up she goes, — like a bird !” 

With a little gasp Lisa found herself in the saddle, — 
one hand clutching the horn, the other closing over the 
bunched bridle-reins. Fortunately, her skirt was a free, 
gathered affair. 

“How about a hat?” Big Bill disappeared into the 
ranch-house, returning almost instantly with a light- 
colored Stetson and a pair of woman’s fringed gauntlets 
that had belonged to one of the nieces. 

The tout ensemble was incongruous enough. The hat 
in especial seemed to Lisa as uncomfortable as it was 
superfluous. The gloves cramped her hands. Yet noth- 
ing would have induced her to discard them. It was 
through such badges as these one proclaimed oneself 
“standardized. . . .” 

And now came Charles, cantering back from the mesa 
where he had been superintending the get-away : — 

“Given her old Baldy, I see. . . .” Then to Lisa: — 
“Steady as an old cow. Used to ladies. . . . All right ; 
— we’re off. . . .” 

Through all their careful observation of detail, the 
keen yet somehow casual assurance with which they ap- 
plied themselves to the work in hand, Lisa felt the same 
tense undercurrent she had noticed at the breakfast 
table; — the thrill and fillip of men keyed to adven- 
ture. 

As they pulled out, a canvas-covered wagon and 


214 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


trailer came rattling round from the corrals. The last 
thing Lisa saw was Wong and his assistants shuttling 
back and forth from the kitchen to the wagon; — trot- 
ting out their stuff, packing it up. . . . 

Through misty seas of gray and pearl the sun shot 
suddenly over the plain. The gray deepened to azure; 
the pearl drifted and feathered out, — brightening to a 
floating fluff of cumuli. . . . 

“Sound sleepers, our amigos down yonder!” Charles 
turned in the saddle to look back at the dull little ’dobe 
town. Adding, to Lisa: — 

“Gypsies have a knack of hearing things. That for- 
tune-telling young woman in the door of the cantina 
last night . . . what had she picked up about us ? She 
tried to tell me. I didn’t want to stop just then.” 

Lisa paled. Any memory of Secundio or Morelia must 
be a memory of terror ; and she had a pretty good idea 
by this time of Morelia’s treachery, — of the deliberate 
trap into which she had been led. It was a moment be- 
fore she collected herself to answer: — 

“Senor, they said that you desired to move your 
herds ; but that you had overlooked certain preliminaries 
and the soldiers would not let you go. . . .” 

Charles gave a short laugh. 

“In this case ‘the preliminaries’ are to be attended to 
afterwards,” he explained. “You understood they would 
try to stop us ?” 

“I do not think they will dare. You are too many. 
But they believed you could not go, — because you had 
overlooked the preliminaries.” 

The two men exchanged glances. Gypsies do not 


THE GOOD AMERICANS 


215 


usually talk of “preliminaries.” Her English was per- 
fect. . . . Yet the strange eyes of her? . . . the soft 
trailing lisp? . . . 

Tobin attempted an experiment: — 

“Darn rascals, — all gitanos . . . . Ready to steal, or 
lie, or turn their hands to any dirty trick. . . .” 

“That is the worlds opinion,” she admitted with 
dignity. “But gitanos are like others, — good and 
bad. . . .” 

So far they had asked no questions. Now Charles 
said — 

“Senorita, you have not told us your name. . . .” 

“My name is Elisa,” she answered without hesitation. 
“Elisa Reyes.” 

She had decided on that as she stood before the mir- 
ror plaiting her hair. Sylvestre had offered his name 
to her. ... She had a right to it. . . . 

All morning they pushed the cattle along, — hard 
driving through a thirsty land. Sometimes Lisa rode 
with Tobin, — sometimes with Charles. Neither man had 
much to say. Both were alert, watchful, full of business. 
Yet for all their preoccupation, they managed to take 
care of her, — never to leave her alone. 

The swirl of choking dust, the continual bellow and 
roar of the cattle, their red eyes and tossing horns, were 
quite terrifying to Lisa. When they lolled their tongues 
and panted, she believed it was through savageness. . . . 
Though she could have walked without effort, she was 
not used to riding and soon felt herself ready to sink 
with fatigue. But she made no complaint. Once or 


216 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


twice they caught her looking at them, — her dark eyes 
eloquent with humble gratitude. . . . 

It must have been somewhere about eleven o’clock that 
over the crest of a low hill to the east appeared a rider. 
He drew up; — was joined by another and yet another. 
. . . Till clustered there against the skyline a company 
of some seventy-five or eighty men were gathered. 

Charles gave a sharp order. The hands closed in 
about the herd. All of them packed guns. There was 
no attempt to accelerate the pace. Grim, dogged, intent 
on the business in hand, the K. C. outfit held to its 
way. . . . 

Probably the bandits, — as nondescript a band of 
ruffians as it is possible to imagine, mounted indiscrim- 
inately on horses, mules, burros ; some in ragged uni- 
forms that reflected the leadership of at least three revo- 
lutions, others with neither hats nor shoes, their heads 
tied up in handkerchiefs — their feet bound with sacking, 
— decided the Americans were more of a proposition 
than they cared to handle. 

From the top of the hill they watched them go by. 

“Damn buzzards !” Tobin apostrophized them. 
“Couldn’t get enough Yaquis together, I reckon. . . .” 

The Cananea district is too far north for genuine 
Yaqui raids. But most of the labor thereabouts is 
Indian labor, — a shifting, nomadic element. For any 
dirty work it was generally easy enough to collect some 
roving bunch. ... In this instance the K. C. had given 
no warning and no time. . . . 

It could not have been more than ten minutes later 
that rattling and clattering along the line amid a wild 


THE GOOD AMERICANS 


217 


burst of cheers from the boys, Wong and his kitchen- 
battery swung into place at the head of the outfit. They, 
too, had caught a glimpse of the bandits, — and were 
taking no chances. Wong “sabied” good and plenty the 
fate of a Chinaman caught napping in Mexico those 
days ! 

And now Charles had a happy thought. Wouldn’t 
Lisa be better off with the chuckwagon? The big cook 
obligingly transferred himself to the top of a barrel. 
The cowboy teamster “reckoned that was the right 
dope. . . .” 

For the rest of the drive, bowling along ahead of the 
dust and din of the cattle, Lisa found herself once 
more in Morelia’s scornful phrase “la Reina. . . .” 

It was mid-afternoon before they baited. The herd 
was all in. . . . On the grassy banks of a stream, in the 
shade of some cottonwoods, Wong served dinner. And 
the way he handled that clamorous crew of famished cow- 
punchers was a miracle. There was hot biscuit and 
bacon and beans, — cooked the day before and brought 
along in a great boiler only needing to be heated. . . . 
Actually, there was pumpkin-pie ! Flaky of crust, rich 
and savory of filling. . . . Such chaff, — such appetites ! 
But nobody put anything over on Wong. Nobody hur- 
ried him. . . . Nobody cheated him. . . . Bland, smil- 
ing, imperturbable, — the man was a Celestial genius ! 

About sunset they were off again. A little after nine 
the moon rose. Lisa, who was beginning to grow sleepy, 
shook off her drowsiness to ask: — 

“What is that shining white pillar set there for?” 

“That pillar . . . ?” 


218 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


A crackling fusillade from the cowboy driver’s whip. 
A ringing cheer from the crew behind. They rattled 
past. . . . 

“That pillar, ma’am P That means we’re Home once 
more, — all hands and the cook, — in the good ol’ 
U. S. A.!” 

It was true. The international boundary had been 
passed. The K. C. cattle outfit, — lock stock, and 
barrel, — had cleared out of Mexico. . . . 

As young Kelly had so succinctly stated the matter, 
it was an instance in which “the preliminaries” would 
be attended to afterwards. 


CHAPTER XVI 


HOW IT MAY PROVE CONVENIENT TO HAVE AN AUNT WHO 
COLLECTS TEAPOTS 



H ARLES KELLY was an up-and-coming young 


business man. By no means did he consider him- 
self, nor was he considered by others, to be an “easy 
mark.” 

He had not the slightest wish to be romantic. He 
liked a good horse and the free sweep of the open plains. 
He had been raised to the cattle business and it suited 
him. 

But as to Romance. . . . Charles was distinctly prac- 
tical. Romance didn’t cut any ice with him. As a 
matter of fact, he didn’t believe it existed ; except in the 
imagination of a certain brand of people, — poets, musi- 
cians, actors, — his Aunt Rose and her friends. . . . 

At school there had been football; at college more 
football; — with vacation came the range. ... Of 
course, there had been girls, too. There was that time 
he had practically made up his mind to propose to Big 
Bill Tobin’s prettier niece; and Bill had managed to 
postpone matters by sending him off to the Bonita after 
a bunch of horses. A month later when Charles got 
back with his mounts, the nieces were gone. Nobody’s 
amour propre suffered; and Charles had come to feel 
distinctly grateful to Bill. 


219 


220 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


He was a very sensible young 1 man, careful, too, — as 
his millions had taught him to be. The exotic, the un- 
usual, had no appeal for him. Yet here he found him- 
self in a situation that was practically a comic-opera 
situation. . . . And the only explanation he could find 
for it all, — was a pair of gitana eyes ! 

Charles, who wasn’t much of a reader, remembered 
having once read somewhere that : — “Alphabetically 
speaking, it’s the eyes of a woman that disturb the ease 
of a man. . . 

The porter in his white jacket was progressing down 
the aisle, turning on the lights in the Pullman car. 

They had just passed Pomona. It had been raining. 
The dusky sheen of orange groves through a mist of 
twilight landscape blurred against the splashed window- 
panes and receded as the train roared on. . . . 

Half an hour more to Los Angeles. . . . 

Charles looked across at his companion. God, — she 
was beautiful! 

Even the shoddy little ready-to-wear blue serge suit, 
which was all they had been able to get in Naco to re- 
place the tattered dis reputability of her gypsy rags, 
could not disguise the grace, the inexpressibly sweet and 
lovely charm of her. 

She had tact, too, and breeding; and, strangely 
enough, a serene, almost queenlike dignity. 

She knew how to carry herself with servants, — the 
acid test. Her manner in the dining-car was perfect. 
Nothing fazed her. Indeed, throughout the three 
days’ intimacy of their strange journey together, not 
once had she occasioned Charles a hint of public em- 


AN AUNT WHO COLLECTS TEAPOTS 221 


barrassment. Probably because not once had she her- 
self seemed to find anything embarrassing in their rela- 
tions. 

What he did for her she accepted quite simply, — 
appearing to take it almost as a matter of course. Yet 
it would have been impossible to believe she did not 
appreciate it. . . . 

“You are good! Oh, so good. . .” she had told him 
that evening they had talked things over together in 
Naco. Since then, though no other word of acknowl- 
edgment had crossed her lips, again and again her eyes 
had spoken: — 

“You are good,” they said to him each morning over 
the breakfast table. “You are so good !” they reiterated 
every evening when he bade her good-night. . . . 

She was almost confoundingly simple; yet without a 
hint of gaucherie. 

“Early Christian. . . .” Curiously enough that 
seemed to be the only phrase Charles could hit on when 
he sought to define her: — 

“An early Christian gitana dance-girl. . . . Good 
God!” 

All the same, if she wasn’t a gypsy, as she herself 
maintained (and whereas git ana dance-girls always told 
tarradiddles about themselves, it was hardly to be sup- 
posed an Early Christian would), then what in thunder 
was she? ... 

The evening at Naco they had had that nice little 
talk in the bare, railroad-hotel waiting-room she had 
explained, — just nothing at all ! And Charles had found 
himself unequal to insisting on an explanation. He 


222 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


understood well enough that by all the laws of “charity,” 
since she looked to him for help, before committing 
himself to help her he should have assumed the preroga- 
tive of a census-taker: — screwed out of her some way, 
an admission of her age, the names of her parents (liv- 
ing or dead, American or Mexican), and where she had 
gone to school. . . . That she had gone to school was 
self-evident. A “good” school, too. It was the only 
allusion she seemed ever to permit herself; — yet even 
here there were no definite details. And definite details 
were what Charles knew he was entitled to. 

Their talk had begun by Charles telling her he would 
be leaving the following day for Los Angeles. But as 
it would be impossible to ship the cattle immediately, 
Big Bill Tobin, who was to accompany the herd, would 
remain in the neighborhood till the promised cars ar- 
rived. 

“Los Angeles !” she repeated, in her soft flowing voice 
with a little thrill of gratified surprise. . . . “Why, — 
that is where I want to go. You can take me with 
you. . . 

“Have you any friends there?” he asked. 

“I have no friends anywhere, senor ; — but you. . . .” 

“Well, have you any money, then?” 

Her gesture dismissed the idea. “All I earned they 
took away from me. . . .” 

Charles believed himself to have had experience with 
every known sort of grafter, — male or female. He was 
not an easy mark. 

“What do you propose to do when you get to Los 
Angeles ?” 


AN AUNT WHO COLLECTS TEAPOTS 223 

“Senor, I wish to dance. They say it is easy to get 
started on the Pacific Coast. . . .” 

Then with a look under which even a census-taker 
must have melted: — “There is so much sorrow in the 
world. . . . Ah!” The tragic pang brought both hands 
pressing to her heart. “I have been very unhappy. I 
do not believe there is anyone who has been more un- 
happy than I ! That is why I want to dance ... to 
make others forget their unhappiness. Besides,” with 
one of her bewildering changes to the simply practical : 
— “I shall have to earn my living; and people make 
much money dancing. Do you think I am still pretty 
enough? The sunburn will wear off, — if you will buy 
me some cold cream. . . .” 

“Of course I will,” Charles found himself agreeing; 
and found in the same breath it would be as impossible 
for him to catechise her as to why she had been un- 
happy, — why she had no friends anywhere but himself, 
— as it would be to catechise any other gracious, beau- 
tiful woman, who had never been unhappy at all ! 

So what he said instead was: — “You’ll need some 
things, to travel in, too, won’t you? That rig isn’t 
going to do. • . •” 

It was then she told him how good he was. And the 
next morning they had gone shopping together. . . . 

From that time on, she put herself implicitly in his 
hands. Not a question had she asked. Not a sugges- 
tion had she made to him. He was taking her to Los 
Angeles, — which was enough; though she had not seen 
the tickets he had bought, nor had she ever been over 


224 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


the road before. Indeed, Charles had a shrewd suspicion 
this was actually her first railroad journey, — of any 
magnitude, at least. But if it were, she suppressed the 
fact under a quiet assumption of biensecmce in which 
it would have been impossible to pick a flaw. . . . 

He looked across at her now as she sat, her lovely 
head bent to a magazine he had bought for her. 

Once he had been adopted by a homeless dog that 
showed very much the same sort of trust. And that 
dog had come to mean a lot to him. . . . “We get into 
Los Angeles in half an hour,” was what he said. 

She raised her eyes to smile. . . . 

“I shan’t be able to take you to my aunt’s to-night. 

“Your aunt, senor?” It was the first time there had 
been any mention of an aunt. 

“ Why, yes. . . . I’ll have to arrange for you some- 
where, you know. And my aunt — collects teapots. 

33 

“But. ... I am not a teapot. . . .” 

“Far from it, senorita. However, my aunt is a rather 
unusual woman, — interested in all sorts of. . . .” 

“Curios?” 

Charles shot a suspicious glance; but her smile was 
too charming for any sting. 

“Well, — you know I didn’t mean that. . . . Let me 
tell you. She’s Rose Kelly, — the actress. . . .” 

He thought he surprised a glimmer of startled recog- 
nition ; but instantly the dark curtains of her lashes 
dropped. . . . She sat waiting without comment. 


AN AUNT WHO COLLECTS TEAPOTS 225 


“So, if you do seriously want to take up dancing, 
there isn’t anybody who could be more helpful getting 
you introductions and so on. . . . Provided. . . 

“She likes me. . . 

“That’s the point exactly. And as a good deal gen- 
erally depends on first impressions, — especially in the 
case of my aunt, — I’ve decided to put you up at some 
Y. W. C. A. boarding-place to-night. And in the morn- 
ing we’ll really go shopping and get you some decent 
things.” 

“Oh, you are good! I know I must look a fright. 

“Well, hardly that. But we want to put our best 
foot forward. . . . My aunt’s retired, now, you know; 
and she isn’t very strong, and doesn’t like to be both- 
ered. . . .” 

Lisa did not know. Her one impression of Rose Kelly 
remained a glittering, glamourful vision, — of lights, of 
music. . . . The vision of a fairy-path down which she 
herself, — given half a chance, — might have danced her 
way to the Land of Heart’s Desire. . . . 

Amid all the tragic debacle of later developments, the 
vivid assurance of that evening in the theatre had never 
been erased. Through heartbreak, through humiliation 
of the flesh and of the spirit, had dawned the slow and 
self-accusing knowledge: — her feet had wandered into 
wrong ways because they had been afraid to climb! 
Philip could never have persuaded her to listen to him, 
— if it had not been for the traitor will within. . . . 

That evening in Los Angeles the key to the Elysian 
Meadows had been hers! Raycroft would have helped 


226 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


her. How could Philip have prevented that? Then 
when Michael and she had come to meet? . . . Oh, she 
mustn’t let herself remember ! She mustn’t let herself 
think back. Hadn’t she suffered enough? Hadn’t she 
repented enough ... to start with a clean slate? 

Such at least was her present determination. So that 
the name of Rose Kelly seemed to her now to flash 
like a golden thread, — the clue that should lead her out 
from the tangled maze of circumstance where she had 
been wandering, — a hopeless prisoner so long. . . . 

“I se-ee. . . .” The eyes lifted again to Charles were 
eyes that would have disturbed the ease of almost any 
man: — “You will take me to call on your aunt. . . . 
And I will dance for her. . . . And if she likes my 
dancing. . . 

“That’s the idea. . . .” 

“Then what I ought to get is something that will look 
as if I were only intending to call; — and that at the 
same time will do to dance in. . . .” Her tone reflected 
the gravity the importance of the decision seemed to 
demand. “I know! A white Georgette crepe with a 
Leghorn hat and a parasol. . . . People who are sun- 
burned always look appropriate in white, — as if they 
were just up from the seaside. . . . White silk stock- 
ings, — I do love silk stockings! And — would two lace 
petticoats be too much?” 

“I guess they wouldn’t break us. . . .” 

It was Charles who blushed. To Lisa the discussion 
seemed entirely natural. She had always been taken 
care of by some man; — first Philip, then Sylvestre. 


AN AUNT WHO COLLECTS TEAPOTS 227 


Even Secundio, according to his lights, had done his 
duty by her. . . . 

Rose Kelly was sixty-two. It was a leaky valve that 
had occasioned her retirement from the stage. To look 
at her one would have believed she ’was still on the sunny 
side of forty. To hear her 'laugh one would have imag- 
ined the thought of death as far from her as it was from 
the mockingbirds and orioles in her one-acre orange 
grove. 

Yet it was always with a little sense of gratified sur- 
prise that Rose Kelly opened her eyes on a new day : — 

“Same old scene,” she’d remark sitting up in bed to 
ring for her maid. “Good enough for Rose. She’s not 
asking another booking!” 

The one-acre orange grove was situated between the 
sea and the mountains, — a lovely spot. It had not been 
the climate alone that had influenced Miss Kelly in her 
selection of southern California as an appropriate set- 
ting for her last days. She wanted to be near her 
brother and Charles. 

The doctors weren’t very encouraging. They may 
have considered it necessary to frighten her. Pushed 
to explicitness they had conceded a year, perhaps, if 
she remained on the stage; ten years, possibly, if she 
retired. The verdict, at the time, had seemed to her as 
final as an obituary. . . . Yet once settled in the sunny 
little orange grove with her cat, her maid and her tea- 
pots, Miss Kelly found the place suited her so exactly 
that she started in to plant a rose garden; and soon 
found she was planting at the same time the secret deter- 


228 


FLOWER OF ^HE WORLD 


mination to hang on and fool ’em all, — till she was 
one hundred and four, anyway. . . . 

It was because of this determination that she would 
not be bothered. Anything that bothered her was bad 
for the leaky valve. And memories of the stage cer- 
tainly bothered. For if they had decided on cutting 
out her heart itself, — leaky valve and all, — she knew 
that it couldn’t have hurt any more than cutting off 
her stage career had hurt. . . . 

A glorious struggle from start to finish, — Rose 
Kelly’s career! With no other backing than good 
looks, good health, good common sense, — an Irish immi- 
grant girl, — she literally danced her way up. 

Later she had learned to act, and act delightfully. 
That was a fifty-fifty proposition, half luck, half hard 
work; — as, with an unbiased recollection rather un- 
usual among stage stars, people generally found her 
good-humoredly ready to admit. . . . The luck had con- 
sisted in her discovery by Anthony Dabney, who took 
her out of vaudeville and chucked her headfirst into 
romantic comedy parts. It was sink or swim then ; and 
Rose swam. With Dabney directing her stroke, light 
comedy seemed what she had been cut out for. . . . 
Dabney had a flair for such discoveries. 

She was ten years winning her place. For thirty 
vears she held it. Then came the last lap of the race, — 
perhaps the most glorious part of the struggle, — when 
with broken health and failing powers, by sheer will 
force, she had played on to full houses. . . . Nobody 
but her grim-faced dragon of a maid and her own weary 


AN AUNT WHO COLLECTS TEAPOTS 229 


old leaking valves would ever guess what those final 
triumphs had cost Rose Kelly. . . . 

It was awful, of course, to have to give up. . . . 
Awful, — and yet a relief. If only she could forget to 
be homesick ! The best way to forget is to refuse to 
remember. . . . 

Charles, realizing his aunt’s attitude toward her late 
profession, was even more difficult than Lisa herself in 
the selection of an appropriate panoply. At all haz- 
ards, the first impression must be an irresistible impres- 
sion. . . . They took the whole morning to it; and at 
last found something that satisfied them both : — a cling- 
ing, seafoamish affair (Lisa explained it really was 
Georgette), embroidered about the square-cut neck and 
the hem' of the skirt with narrow lines of iridescent 
beads. On the drooping brim of the Leghorn hat was 
one large, faintly flushing tea-rose. Nor did they forget 
the parasol, the lace petticoat, the silk stockings ! 

As she came to him from the little dressing-room be- 
tween a double row of mirrors she seemed to float, — a 
lovely radiant vision of light, of fire. ... Not too 
ethereal ; for the glowing mellow bisque of her face and 
throat were warm, sunkissed, human. . . . 

Charles found himself staring, — stupidly staring. 
. . . He was wondering if she actually had grown taller. 
But — no. . . . That was due to the straight lines of the 
skirt, — they were wearing them straight that season. . . . 
Lisa was really of medium stature; it was her delicate 
build, the perfect harmony and grace of her movements 
that made people think of her as “little. . . 


230 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


“Will I do?” she asked, rather anxiously, troubled 
perhaps by his silence. 

“You’ll do,” Charles answered a little huskily. 

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid 
eyes on. Then why should there be that queer sinking 
twinge of something very like disappointment? Look- 
ing at her again, he knew. It was because there seemed 
so little of the gypsy dance-girl left. . . . 

They found Miss Kelly among her roses, enveloped 
in a large gingham apron with a foamy bucket of whale- 
oil soapsuds. 

“Charles!” At sight of her nephew she gathered 
the apron about her, sprang lightly over the bucket of 
suds, and came running up the driveway. 

“Princess- Aunt ! You know you mustn’t run. . . .” 

When Charles had been about seven years old he was 
taken to see his aunt on the stage. Charley Kelly 
senior (in this instance it was the father who carried 
the diminutive), wasn’t a millionaire at that time. Cow- 
boy, mining prospector, railroad man, he, like his sister, 
had fought his way up. ... It was Rose Kelly’s first 
Western tour under Dabney management. She was 
playing in one of those gorgeously costumed, roman- 
tically conceived roles he had invented for her, — a Rus- 
sian princess or something like that. Anyway, the curly 
head of the little Los Angeles boy was quite turned at 
the thought of actual relationship to so radiant a being. 

. . . Princess-Aunt was the name he invented for her; 
and through all the succeeding years Princess-Aunt had 
remained for Miss Kelly the very sweetest name in the 


AN AUNT WHO COLLECTS TEAPOTS 231 


world. Charles, the rascal, may have suspected this. 
At least, it was a name he seemed to remember and bring 
out whenever there was anything especial for which he 
wanted to work his aunt. . . . 

“Mustn’t run? Who’s been telling you, Charles? 
. . . Rubbish ! A little healthful exercise. . . . Listen 
to me. All doctors are in league with the undertakers. 
The Countess of Desmond fell out of an appletree at 
one hundred and four and broke her leg. When I give 
my one hundred and fourth birthday party I’ll invite 
every doctor who’s ever consigned me to the tomb ! But 
when did you get back? Anything happen down there?” 

“Last night. Not a thing. I’ve brought Miss Elisa 
Reyes to see you.” He turned to the girl seated beside 
him in the roadster. From the first Miss Kelly had been 
wondering as to the girl. “Miss Reyes has been danc- 
ing in Mexico. She is anxious to get an opening in 
Los Angeles. , . 

“Good Lord, Charles ! You know I’m not interested 
in the stage. It was to escape all that. . . .” 

“We’ve been bold enough to hope Miss Reyes might 
revive your interest, ma’am. She is a gitana. . . 

“No,” corrected Lisa in her softest, most lingering 
voice. “I danced with the gypsies, senorita. But I 
myself am not a gypsy.” 

Miss Kelly shot a keen, appraising glance. If Charles 
did not care about Romance, his aunt adored it. Come 
right down to brass-tacks, it was Romance she was 
homesick for. She had worked all her life. . . . She 
often told herself she could be very happy off the stage, 
— if only there was a little more Romance! And a 


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gitana dance-girl with the air of a queen! ... Of 
course the girl was a gypsy, — with those eyes. Unless 
they went round selling baskets and things they were 
bound to deny it. . . . However, as to dancing and 
stage introductions. . . . Charles ought to have remem- 
bered about her leaky valve : — 

“Well, get down, both of you. I’m nothing but a 
retired old woman. Anybody who really can dance 
doesn’t have to go begging for an opening these days. 

. . . It’s easy to see you’re Spanish, my dear. There’s 
plenty of talent come out of Mexico.” 

Charles gave Lisa his hand. She sprang from the 
car : — 

“O-h-h! How beautiful everything is! You live here, 
senorita, — with the roses and the cat?” 

This second observation embraced two of Miss Kelly’s 
pet hobbies. Really, with all the coaching in the world, 
— and Charles had not coached her, — Lisa couldn’t have 
done better. 

To add the last touch Sinbad, the pedigreed blue 
Persian, usually haughtily indifferent to strangers, had 
drifted over and was rubbing himself against the girl’s 
silken knees. 

Lisa stooped to stroke him. The two wandered away 
among the roses. 

“Charles, — explain her. . . .” 

“There doesn’t seem to be any explanation. I’ve 
been hoping perhaps you would discover one, Aunt 
Rosebush. . . .” Another of his pet names. “I came 
on her first dancing (and dance she can!) in a cantina , 

■ — with as rascally a bunch. . . .” 


AN AUNT WHO COLLECTS TEAPOTS 233 


They, too, wandered off to a hammock and some 
chairs grouped casually under a gigantic peppertree. 
In a circle of rocks were ferns and many colored be- 
gonias screened by a mist of waving green bamboo. A 
flash of oriole’s wings, — a trickle of hidden water. . . . 
The perfumed breeze blowing in from the orange grove 
stirred the lacy fringes of the pepper-branches, gay 
with their drooping bunches of bright coral berries. 
The tree made a perfect canopy. Under it was Miss 
Kelly’s al fresco reception room. No wonder she had 
determined to hang on and cheat the doctors. . . . 

Charles, leaning earnestly toward her, related as 
briefly as possible the story of his discovery and rescue 
of Lisa. His very brevity made the most of the drama: 
— “And, Princess-Aunt, that’s every earthly thing I 
can tell you about her! Of course, it’s a mystery; of 
course, there’s a tragedy back of it. . . . Mexico is 
full of tragedies these days. She probably has gitana 
blood; — but she never belonged with that bunch! She 
says she’s gone to school. She bears the earmarks of 
it ; and you can see for yourself she is ... a lady.” 

“Charles . . . you’re not in love with her!” 

“My dear aunt! But what else was there I could 
do? . . . She hasn’t a penny in the world ; nor a friend 
according to her own account. I couldn’t just drop 
her down in Los Angeles, could I? All I’m asking of 
you is that you will see her dance. . . .” 

“If she hasn’t any money, — where did she get those 
clothes ?” 

Charles had no time to answer. Lisa and Sinbad 
were coming back. 


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“Miss Reyes, I understand you want to dance for 
me. My nephew has explained to you, of course, that 
X have severed all connection with the stage. However, 
I used to dance. . . . One doesn’t entirely forget. If 
you are ready we will go inside, — so you can change to 
your gitana things. . . 

A stricken look between Lisa and Charles! 

“Oh, senorita. . . . They were so old and — worn. 
. . . We . . . selected this dress this morning. Your 
nephew thought. . . .” 

“Good Lord, — how like you, Charles !” Miss Kelly’s 
disappointment was as vivid and unreasoning as a 
child’s. Despite her show of reluctance, she was se- 
cretly aching to see the girl dance — had been, ever since 
Charles’ dipt recital of the scene in the cantina , — the 
fight with the soldiers. ... If that wasn’t Romance 
for you ! Her histrionic instinct, ears pricked, champed 
with impatience. . . . And here was Charles, — spoiling 
everything ! 

“Oh well, — of course. . . . It’s out of the question 
she should do gitana dances in a dress like that! How 
could I possibly judge? And without music. . . . 
You’ll be suggesting we turn on the phonograph, next! 
Really, Charles, I often wonder how you came to be my 
nephew. ... If Michael Martyn were here, — with that 
Hungarian Rhapsody of his. ... Not that he will 
ever play it again, poor boy. . . . 

“Miss Reyes! Get some water, Charles! She’s white 
as a sheet. . . .” 

Lisa had sunk into one of the chairs. The dark lashes 
fluttered against her pale cheeks. 


AN AUNT WHO COLLECTS TEAPOTS 235 

Miss Kelly, accustomed to exhibitions of the artistic 
temperament, put the collapse down to the girl’s disap- 
pointment at not being allowed to dance. It rather 
flattered her ; and at the same time her quick Irish sym- 
pathies were aroused : — 

“There, there, child. I didn’t say I wouldn’t see you 
dance at all. ... I said you couldn’t dance this after- 
noon in that dress and with no music, — it wouldn’t be 
a fair test. We’ll get hold of a gitana costume some- 
how. We can’t get Michael Martyn, — the young musi- 
cian I was speaking of, — to play. He’s in France, — 
such a waste ! — fighting in the trenches. . . . This war 
is enough to break one’s heart! ... Is Charles sup- 
posed to be digging a well?” 

She hurried into the house after her nephew : — 
“You’ve got it? I’ll tell Susan to make some tea. . . . 
Really, Charles, I’m sorry to say so. . . . But you have 
acted like a brute ! To drag that poor girl shopping 
all the morning, — then bring her over here, chuckfull of 
impossible expectations. . . .” 

“My dear aunt, — what was I to do with her? I put 
her up at a Y. W. C. A. boarding-place last night. . . .” 

A gitana, dance-girl at a Y. W. C. A. boarding-place ! 
Who but Charles would have thought of anything like 
that ? 

“Well, all I know is, — she couldn’t dance this after- 
noon if I’d let her. So far as I can see, — she’ll just 
have to stop here for a day or two till I can take hold 
of matters. What it will do to my leaky valves. . . I 
But — she’s a darling, Charles! And beautiful . . . * 
If she can dance as you sag she can dance. . . 


236 


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Suddenly Miss Kelly put both hands on her nephew’s 
shoulders, reached up on tiptoes and kissed him, — with 
a great big smacking Irish kiss. 

Doctors be hanged ! As if it wasn’t every bit as fatal 
to die of homesickness, inch by inch, as to let yourself 
be snuffed out by heart disease. . . • 


CHAPTER XVII 


HOW MICHAEL WENT TO FRANCE FOR LOVE AND LISA 

LEARNS HOW STRANGE A THING HAPPINESS CAN BE 

M ICHAEL in the trenches ! Michael, — fighting in 
France ! 

The flutter of Lisa’s lashes, the deep, broken, tremu- 
lous breaths she drew were the only outward signs of 
a mounting sea of emotion that choked her heart, that 
flooded her brain, — leaving her limp, helpless, bewil- 
dered. . . . 

She pressed her hands against her eyelids, and the 
scorching tears trickled through her fingers. . . . 

Oh, — she hadn’t been expecting it! She hadn’t been 
expecting it ! 

Always since their parting, her pictures of Michael 
had been happy pictures. It was to secure his happi- 
ness, — that she had gone away! With his youth, his 
gifts, his charm, surely the world must smile on Michael. 
. . . The way she saw him oftenest was the way she 
had seen him first that night of the concert, — slender, 
delicate, dominating, — a prince in his own realm, — 
swaying people’s hearts, inspiring, uplifting their souls. 
That had come to be her Michael. The picture had 
comforted and sustained her through many a bitter 
ordeal. And now . . . now. . . . 

237 


238 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


It was all so confused ... so incredible. . . . Lisa 
had hardly had time yet to recover from her bewilder- 
ment at her own re-emergence from the depth: — had not, 
as one might say, succeeded in orienting herself. In 
making up her mind to return to Los Angeles she had 
reasoned with that direct, almost childish simplicity of 
ratiocination that was an inherent part of her mental 
processes. . . . She had to earn her living. She be- 
lieved she could earn it dancing. Mrs. O’Leary had 
once told her it was not hard to get started on the 
Pacific Coast. 

The thought of Philip could not keep her away. She 
hoped she would not meet him. If she did meet him, 
she told herself she need no longer fear him. He would 
never have any power over her again. In her heart 
she believed she had come to forgive him; to realize 
that they had been betrayed, both of them, by their own 
weakness . . . that if Philip had done her harm, so, 
also, had she done harm to him. 

As to Michael, — he in the East, she in the West, — 
Lisa had not given a thought to the chance of their 
ever meeting. People might speak of Michael, of 
course. 

“Michael Martyn, — the young musician I was speak- 
ing about. . . .” It couldn’t be anybody else ! 

Slowly Lisa sat up. She was alone under the pepper- 
tree. The sky that flickered through the green canopy 
of drooping fernlike foliage was sweet and tender and 
blue. Somewhere in the cool depths of the little orange 
grove a mockingbird was singing. ... It was a beau- 
tiful world. It ought to have been a happy world ! But 


MICHAEL WENT TO FRANCE FOR LOVE 239 


over there in France men were killing each other, — 
tearing each other to pieces like # bloody rags. . . . And 
Michael was among them, — fighting, too. 

“God ! Oh, God !” the agony of her heart seemed to 
cry in her ears, — a passionate accusing voice: — “He 
wouldn’t have gone, — if it hadn’t been for me !” 

She rose unsteadily to her feet, — and recalled how 
a moment before she had been standing out there among 
the roses in the sunshine, confidently waiting for the 
word that would give her leave to dance her way back 
to a new self-respect, — a new life. . . . 

Was there to be no end to her punishment then? No 
end to her suffering? Wasn’t anyone ever given a 
chance to wipe out the past and begin with a clean 
slate ? 

The glass-door in the side of the bungalow through 
which one stepped from “the teapot-room” out to the 
peppertree opened. Charles and Miss Kelly were com- 
ing out. They were both of them smiling, calling ahead 
to her: — She was all right again? In just a moment 
they would have a good cup of hot tea. . . . 

Lisa, drilled to endurance, trained in an iron school 
of self-repression, smiled, too : — Yes, oh, yes. She 
was all right, now. And so very sorry to have made 
trouble. 

Except for her pallor, except that her voice did not 
ring as their voices rang, no one would have suspected 
anything wrong. 

Charles said : — “My aunt’s been scolding me. She’s 
as good as told me I’m a Merry Christmas frost as a 
theatrical agent. I hope you aren’t going to agree 


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with her. It doesn’t really agree with anybody, to be 
agreed with too often. . . .” 

Miss Kelly laughed. And her laugh was one of the 
things that had made her: — “Good Lord, girl! You’re 
not the first to imagine it’s hop, skip, and jump, — over 
the footlights onto the stage. You think I didn’t have 
to wait? You think I didn’t have to work my head 
off? I’m not denying luck has something to do with it. 
Dabney was my luck. . . . But there’s plenty besides 
the make-up the gallery never gets onto. . . . And if 
he wasn’t a tyrant, — a slave-driver!” 

“Senorita, I have danced with the gypsies. I know 
what dancing means.” 

Miss Kelly respected that answer. “So much the bet- 
ter, then.” Her tone became businesslike: — “You’ll not 
be expecting me to wave my wand and accomplish the 
impossible. Look here, Miss Reyes, you realize I can’t 
commit myself to anything till I have seen you dance; 
and I realize it wouldn’t be fair to let you dance this 
afternoon. ... As that’s the case, it seems to me the 
best arrangement will be for you to stop over here with 
me a couple of days. . . . Then we can take our time 
about things; and. . . .” 

“Stop here with you ... !” 

Even to that dim torture chamber where Lisa’s soul 
struggled, these words had power to penetrate: — “Oh, 
Miss Kelly ! How good of you ! I had . . . forgotten 
. . . such places could be!” 

Charles got up, strolled across to the rustic table and 
put down his cup: — 

* “The best possible solution, Princess-Aunt. And I’m 


MICHAEL WENT TO FRANCE FOR LOVE 241 


sure that you and Miss Reyes are going to come to an 
understanding that will . . . that will . . . eventually. 

5 J 

“Charles, — you’re staying for dinner?” 

“Sorry, ma’am. But I can’t. Promised to meet the 
Boss at six. . . .” 

“He’s back, then?” 

“Gets in this afternoon.” 

“He’s found a ranch?” 

“Up near White River. Fine cow country, his letter 
said. Just as soon as we get a wire from Tobin, off I 
go. . . . Hope to get over before then. If I don’t, — 
the dad will anyway. . . . Such a pleasure to be leaving 
Miss Reyes here. . . .” 

But for all Charles’s openly expressed gratification 
that Miss Reyes and his aunt should be “hitting things 
off so wonderfully,” the chief feeling he was really 
conscious of was a queer little grumpy sense of some- 
thing very like injury. . . . Just what one might ex- 
pect, — with women. Yesterday, he remembered, it was 
he who was “so good. ...” 

At that moment Lisa looked up at him, — stretched 
out her hand. It was all Charles could do to stop him- 
self in time. His aunt knew what an unromantic, mat- 
ter-of-fact sort of fellow he was. What would she have 
thought then to see him bending to kiss the fingers of 
a git ana dance-girl? 

“The teapot-room” was every bit as fascinating as 
the peppertree garden. ... It occupied the front 
length of the bungalow, running from end to end of the 


242 


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house. The ceiling, like many California bungalow 
ceilings, was low, and the walls were wainscoted to a 
height of nearly five feet. Both wainscoting and ceiling 
were of Oregon pine, stained in unvarnished green. The 
natural golden tints of the pine, its delicate graining, 
glimmered through the clear wash of stain as sunshine 
glimmers through a leafy canopy of treetops. . . . 
Rugs, furnishings, hangings, all graded to the same 
harmonious tones of green, of olive, of brown, with here 
and there a splash of gold, — a spangle of copper. Step- 
ping through the quaintly fashioned doorway from the 
peppertree garden, it was almost as if one had stepped 
inside the trunk of the tree itself. 

There were perhaps a hundred teapots in the room, 
and they were most of them little teapots, — odd, amus- 
ing, suggestive. Lisa followed them round the narrow 
rail that topped the wainscot, very much as a child 
would follow a fairy story. . . . You began with a 
little brown pot-bellied clay teapot from Japan, the 
only ornamentation of which were the thumb-marks of 
the potter till you came to the lid, — a grotesquely coiled 
dragon. A little further along were the Seven Gods of 
Happiness from China. . . . There was a Willowware 
teapot, of course ; and a gorgeous “Indian-tree” teapot. 
There was a delicious green Wedgwood teapot with 
Flaxman decorations, delicate as splashed seafoam. 
There was a miniature jewel of a cloisonne teapot, gay 
in butterfly wings. There were flower- wreathed teapots 
from Limoges, from Dresden. . . . The only rule 
seemed to be nothing must be more than four inches 
tall. It was a regular hop-o-my-thumb collection. 


MICHAEL WENT TO FRANCE FOR LOVE 243 


Miss Kelly liked the way Lisa followed round the rail, 
— without question and without exclamation. The girl 
was proving herself decidedly a restful person and very 
— appealing. She still seemed tired, almost a little 
dazed. She had hardly touched her dinner. Yet no one 
could question her appreciation ; and she was, as Charles 
had stated, indubitably a lady. . . . 

Who knew what she’d been through, poor child ! Just 
as Charles said, anything might happen in Mexico these 
days. . . . Miss Kelly kept thinking of the time she 
and her brother Charley had landed in New York, — 
with only one little horsehair trunk and a bundle between 
them. This girl hadn’t even a bundle ; hadn’t anything, 
apparently, but the clothes Charles had bought for 
her. 

What was she looking at now, — standing so quietly 
there with her clasped hands? Oh, that photograph of 
Michael Martyn. . . . 

Michael was a prime favorite with Miss Kelly. She 
was always ready to talk about him. She had met him 
several years ago in New York when he first came back 
from Germany. But his father and she were old friends. 
. . . One might even have inferred certain sentimental 
associations connected with Robert Martyn in Miss 
Kelly’s past. The fact that there had been ten years 
difference in their ages would be no detriment. Indeed, 
had the promising young artist that Robert Martyn 
was in those days followed the law of averages estab- 
lished by his sort, it was a safe bet he had thought him- 
self in love with the brilliant and successful actress who 


244 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


was always so kind to him. That, of course, was before 
Judith’s day. . . . The supposition would at least ac- 
count for the half tender, half whimsical air of affec- 
tionate proprietorship adopted by Miss Kelly toward 
the son. ... 

“That’s Michael Martyn, — the young musician I was 
speaking of this afternoon.” It was inevitable she 
should begin now. 

“A beautiful face, — don’t you think, Miss Reyes?” 

And because these were the very words Lisa had been 
waiting for, she did not turn. She could not have 
spoken of the photograph, — she could not have spoken 
at all. But she had felt quite sure that if she stood 
there long enough, Miss Kelly would speak. . . . 

“One of the sweetest fellows I have ever known. Oh, 
my dear, — such a sacrifice! It’s all very well to say 
that his musical future was ruined. ... I never did 
believe that with patience the lost flexibility couldn’t 
have been restored. But Michael was always like that, 
— oversensitive, quixotic. . . .” 

Lisa crossed the bright room with its cheerful fire. 
She threw herself down on a couch, a little withdrawn 
in the shadows, and lay there quite flat, — as if she was 
very tired. Presently came Sinbad, the cat, stretching 
and purring. Sinbad, who never made up to strangers, 
was making an exception of the beautiful gitana 
girl. . . . 

“What do you mean by the lost flexibility?” 

Miss Kelly noticed the tragic quality of the voice. 
The girl, caught young enough, might have made an 


MICHAEL WENT TO FRANCE FOR LOVE 245 


actress. . . . Dancing was the next thing to acting, 
these days. They would see. . . . 

She explained that Michael Martyn had received an 
injury in a hotel fire. Right out here on the Coast, — 
the Buena Vista, at Corona. It was to have been the 
occasion of his Western debut. ... No one believed 
the burns serious, at first; but some later exposure or 
neglect had resulted in a stiffening of the muscles. 
What to the average man would have been a matter of 
little importance, to the young violinist had seemed 
the wreck of every hope. ... 

“ And there were other complications. An affair with 
a model. . . .” Miss Kelly was vague as to details. It 
had all happened before she came West. Obviously, the 
girl couldn’t have been much good. Her relations with 
Philip Cortwright would prove that. “Michael was 
always such a dear ... so chivalrous and innocent! 
More like a girl himself, when I knew him. Well, — she 
disappeared. People said she drowned herself. Prob- 
ably had her reasons. . . . And what should Michael 
do but start off to Canada, — to enlist. He was keen 
about the war from the first, — long before the rest of 
us realized. Oh, it was inevitable, I suppose. . . .” 

That was over a year ago. He had written once after 
his arrival in France. Then had come a break. She 
had heard nothing since August. . . . That dreadful 
Somme offensive. . . . 

“What a sigh, Miss Reyes! I feel the same myself. 
The flower of our age, — all those young and promising 
lives mowed down in blood. . . . America will be in- 
volved next, — you’ll see. . . 


246 


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“Philip Cortwright, — what did he do after he lost 
his model ?” Miss Kelly, who always enjoyed her own 
stories, found the particularity of Lisa’s interest 
nothing but flattering: — 

“Married, — in six months! John Madison’s niece.”, 
Even in Mexico people must have heard of John Madi- 
son. “The girl by all accounts was something of a pill, 
— but thoroughly gilded. He’s never done anything 
much since. Given up the San Miguel studio. Has a 
place on Long Island, — a yacht and all the fixings. 
The finish of almost any artist, — a rich marriage. . . .” 

Lisa, sinking to sleep that night, seemed to herself 
to be sinking down, down, down into a sombrous pit of 
hopeless desolate despair. 

She had gone away — that Michael might be happy ! 

Engendered in misery, watered by penitent tears, her 
sacrifice had come to bloom in her heart, a flower of 
serene, unreasoned, radiant assurance: — a flower now 
broken, trampled, blood-smeared. Michael was in the 
trenches ! 

If he had not loved her, he would never have gone. 

Love? What had their love been? Something to be 
wasted, played with, thrown away. . . . 

God. There was no God. 

She fell asleep as she had used to fall asleep after 
one of Secundio’s beatings ; and in her sleep she sobbed 
and caught her breath. . . . 

About the middle of the night she wakened. . . . 

Why had Michael gone to France? 


MICHAEL WENT TO FRANCE FOR LOVE 247 


In the darkness and the stillness it seemed almost as; 
if a voice had roused her with the question. . . . 

“It’s not because I was unhappy in Germany. It’s 
because I can’t bear what they are doing.” 

Words she had long forgotten came back to her. . . . 

Up to that afternoon under the peppertree it might 
be said the war had never “registered” with Lisa. In 
the old days at San Miguel it was natural her attitude 
should reflect Philip’s. In Mexico and on the Island with 
the gypsies the most one heard was an occasional care- 
less allusion. Once in Naco, again on the train, Lisa 
had started to read some of the papers Charles had 
bought; but the confused headlines, the terrible accounts 
of bloodshed, of wholesale slaughter, had repelled her 
and she had turned again to her magazines. . . . 

Now, sitting up in the darkness, shivering, huddling 
her knees in her clasped hands, for the first time some 
personal responsive comprehension of what the war 
really meant struck home to Lisa. . . . 

Germany was like Secundio with his savage stick. 
Michael had gone to France because he could not stay 
away. . . . Because there were people crying out in 
agony, — as she had used to cry when Secundio fell on 
her, — women and little children. . . . 

She had wanted a new life. She had wanted to begin 
with a clean slate. Did that mean she wanted to wipe 
out her memories of Michael? 

Lisa pressed her hands against her breast and 
trembled. There was a pain there like a sword. It was 
not only for Michael, — it was for all those others who 
suffered. . . . 


248 FLOWER OF THE WORLD 

Michael had gone to France for love. ... It was 
God. 

There was to be no theatrical wand-waving for Lisa. 

Miss Kelly having seen her dance was enthusiastic; 
but she restrained her enthusiasm. What is more, she 
insisted that Charles restrain his: — 

“She’ll do,” she told him. “But for her own sake all 
we can give her is the chance to prove she will do. 
There could be nothing more fatal than a false start 
now at a pace she isn’t prepared for. If people realize 
we’re back of her, — that’s enough. I know what I’m 
talking about. Leave it to me. . . .” 

Charles respected his aunt’s opinion too much to raise 
any objections; though the delay irked him. From the 
first his own belief in Lisa’s possibilities had been bound- 
less. 

It was arranged then that Miss Reyes should be given 
a month’s trial in regulation chorus ballet work at the 
Punch and Judy, — to show what was in her. . . . 

At the end of the first rehearsal, with characteristic 
simplicity, she sought the manager’s office : — 

“There is no use my trying to dance like that,” she 
said. “It is stiff and very stupid. What I know is 
something altogether different and much more beautiful. 
Gitanas are not shod like horses; — they have wings to 
their heels. I must dance by myself, or I cannot dance 
at all. . . .” 

The manager of the Punch and Judy happened to 
be a young man who had come West because he had 


MICHAEL WENT TO FRANCE FOR LOVE 249 

broken down in the East under the physical and finan- 
cial strain of trying to start something “new” at Coney 
Island. 

The sublime audacity of the girl struck a congenial 
chord. 

“Say, — I wouldn’t wonder if there was something in 
that. . . . I’ll give you a turn at the children’s matinee 
next Saturday. If you don’t make a go of it, there’s 
no special damage done; and if you do. . . De- 
cidedly, a genuine gitana dance-girl was a novelty. 

“The children’s matinee? I’ll make a go of it.” 

And Lisa kept her word. After Saturday afternoon’s 
performance there was no further talk of pony-ballet 
drill for Miss Reyes. 

Western managers are not glutted with material as 
are those in the East. And Lisa possessed the three 
prime personal requisites : — beauty, talent, tempera- 
ment. These being sponsored for by the Kelly millions, 
the Kelly professional prestige, her success was a fore- 
gone conclusion. 

That first season she danced for children, — two mat- 
inees a week. Her work consisted chiefly of gitana 
features with some fascinatingly delicate and original 
nature interpretations. In her specialty she had had 
a unique training. Secundio, for all the brutal savagery 
of his nature, was in his art the embodiment of a wild 
and untaught genius. And back of his influence were 
the long years of studio posing for Philip Cortwright. 
There is nothing more plastic, more retentive, than the 
imagination of a child. In Lisa’s dancing now, — in 
what even she herself considered her most spontaneous 


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improvisations, — the spirit of those early artistic im- 
pressions, the “Butterfly,” the “Dewdrop,” the “Wild- 
flower, bloomed again. 

By February people had begun to talk of the beauti- 
ful gitana dance-girl at the “P. and J.” In a modest, 
local sort of way, Lisa’s vogue was becoming established. 
Her salary, as is generally the case with salaries, was 
even more modest, more “local.” She had signed up 
for the season. There could be no talk of a raise till 
spring; but Lisa, who had always been extravagant, 
developed a wonderful new pride in “managing. . . 

Without asking anybody’s advice she found for her- 
self a cheap little furnished apartment, — kitchenette, 
living-room, and bath, — on the top floor of a somewhat 
shabby “family hotel.” It was in the downtown section, 
convenient to her work, which would save carfare ; con- 
venient to the cafeterias where she could get her dinners. 
The street was a narrow street of bare and glaring 
asphalt, lined on either side by equally bare and glaring 
brick and mortar apartment-houses. But it ran uphill. 
“The family hotel” was a story higher than any of the 
surrounding buildings; and from Lisa’s living-room 
window on cloudless days could be glimpsed a far line 
of shimmering blue. This blue line, the agent who 
showed her the apartment explained, was really a “view 
of the ocean.” And it was for this “ocean view” Lisa 
took the apartment. 

Charles coming to call on her for the first time in her 
new domicile was anything but satisfied: — 

“Look here, Miss Reyes, this isn’t going to do. . . . 
This isn’t the sort of place for you at all. . . And 


MICHAEL WENT TO FRANCE FOR LOVE 251 


then, rather awkwardly, he made the proposal that she 
let him be her banker that first winter. The salary at 
the “P. and J.” wasn’t a living salary. ... It would 
be an arrangement known to no one but themselves. 
She could pay him back, if she wanted to, — later on 
when all the managers were clamoring for con- 
tracts. . . . 

“No. . . . Oh, no!” The look lifted to his was not 
in the least offended. It was rather the frightened look 
of a child who thinks somebody is going to take some- 
thing away. . . . 

So after that Charles satisfied himself by bringing 
her candy (Lisa did love candy) and flowers which 
she always set in the open window “where they could 
breathe. . . .” And once a week anyway he would stop 
for her in his car and take her out to his aunt’s. 

From the first, Miss Kelly had felt Lisa’s charm. 
Now the girl’s grave absorption in her work, her dignity, 
her reserve (if there are things you don’t want to talk 
about, why talk about them?), compelled respect as well 
as liking. Rose Kelly, who knew what it meant to main- 
tain an economic equilibrium while dancing one’s way up 
was giving to Lisa the best and most helpful thing she 
had to give; — a readiness to accept the young dancer 
on a footing of professional rapprochement and fra- 
ternity. . . . 

Success does not “happen” on the stage. To work, 
to work, to study, to sacrifice and to rise! Lisa, who 
all her life had longed for happiness; — was beginning 
to learn how strange a thing happiness can be! She 
was happy in her shabby little room with its far glimmer 


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of “ocean view;” she was happy in her independence; 
she was happy in her little audiences at the Punch and 
Judy. . . . They threw her flowers, sometimes, they 
clapped their hands and laughed. 

It was February that she gave her Valentine party for 
“all the orphans. . . .” 

Without the Kelly backing, it is hardly to be sup- 
posed that anything like that could have happened so 
soon ; though something in the phrase itself as proposed 
by Miss Reyes would appear to have struck home to the 
advertising sense of the “P. and J.” young manager : — 

“ All the orphans? Say, — that sounds sort of appeal- 
ing. . . .” He did not add, though he might have, that 
just recently he had begun to think the git ana dances 
would pay for a little special featuring. . . . 

The evening of the fourteenth the house was packed. 
Rows on rows of little set faces. The theatre was, 
perhaps, too rare a treat. In their stiff, ugly, char- 
itable garb, the children did not thaw at first. They 
were used to being suppressed, poor mites. 

Lisa went after them, hammer and tongs. Gay, 
tender, bubbling over with spontaneity and make-believe, 
she gave them what unknowingly their starved little 
hearts hungered for. It was that night she brought 
out her “Lucky Devil Dance. . . After the first 
crow of startled delight, the performance went with a 
bang! 

At the very end the gitana dance-girl came running 
to the edge of the stage, — and hung there for a moment 
with extended arms. . . . 


MICHAEL WENT TO FRANCE FOR LOVE 253 


‘‘Why,” remarked one of the directresses to the Sister 
beside her, “she’s crying. . . 

“Crying? Impossible. . . .” 

“Impossible or not, — there are tears on her cheeks.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


HOW USA TOLD CHARLES’ FORTUNE “LA VIDA ES SUENO” 

N O man with a spark of romance in him would think 
of proposing at a kitchen sink ! Perhaps that was 
the reason Charles Kelly found himself thinking about 
it on a lovely Sunday afternoon in April, — two hours 
after he had enlisted in the U. S. Marines. 

He was back unexpectedly from a month’s stay at 
the ranch. As he hadn’t found Lisa at home at her 
“family hotel,” he was pretty sure he would find her 
at home under his aunt’s peppertree. 

Sunday tea was really Sunday supper with Miss 
Kelly; because Susan (her grim-faced maid of long 
years’ service and despotic temperament), took Sunday 
afternoons to visit a niece. The niece had married a 
retired railway conductor. When Susan followed Miss 
Kelly’s “hazard of new fortunes” to California, they 
had followed Susan. They had bought a little ranch and 
settled down to raise white leghorns. Once a week Susan 
had to go out and superintend the incubators. There 
were various indications the retired railway conductor 
looked forward to these visits with mixed emotions. But 
Susan had money put by; and relations-in-law with 
money generally find themselves tolerated. 

Anyway, the Kellys got a lot of fun out of Sunday 
254 


HOW LIZA TOLD CHARLES’ FORTUNE 255 


afternoons. It was quite the established custom that 
Charles and his father (when in town), should come over 
for tea under the peppertree. Gradually Lisa found 
herself included in these parties. They were always 
“parties.” Even if Charles was away, she knew the 
others expected her. . . . 

This special Sunday they had none of them been ex- 
pecting Charles. And when they found out what he was 
down for they all made such a fuss over him. (It was 
the first Sunday after the signing of America’s declara- 
tion of belligerency, — and, as you may remember, in 
those days, we did make a fuss over them when they 
enlisted), that the poor fellow actually couldn’t find 
time to think of beginning to propose till after supper 
when he and Lisa were clearing away the tea things and 
piling them up at the kitchen sink, — to be neatly ready 
for Susan in the morning. . . . 

It goes without saying that had Miss Kelly wanted a 
second maid she might have had six ! But to every sug- 
gestion of her brother’s that her household staff be 
enlarged, she returned the same answer: — 

“My dear Charley! You know Susan.” 

“Susan be hanged !” 

“That’s all very well. It isn’t you she’d look at as 
if you had stuck a hatpin into her sawdust and ask: — 
‘Is it that you feel, ma’am, you’d be better suited with 
a younger somebody, — after thirty years?’ . . . Any- 
way, I came to California to retire. One maid, one cat, 
one orange grove, and one hundred teapots are enough !” 

Fortunately Susan had taken to Miss Reyes. “She 
adds to the home,” was her form of approval. . . . 


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It may have been Charles himself was thinking some- 
thing like that as he watched Lisa standing by the sink, 
scalding out the little copper kettle and setting it in the 
open window to air. She was wearing forget-me-not 
blue that afternoon, — with a frilly white apron. In his 
heart of hearts Charles knelt to that apron: — 

“Miss Reyes. . . He cleared his throat. 

She looked up then. What she saw in his eyes would 
have warned any woman. And it mustn’t happen ! Oh ! 
it mustn’t. . . . He had always been so good to her! 
He was her friend. . . . 

“Senor,” Lisa, who had practically dropped her 
Spanish, preserved this appellation for him alone. It 
was accepted between them as a little term of affection- 
ate recollection and regard: — “you remember another 
evening when you were going on a journey, and the 
young gypsy woman who sat in the door of the cantina 
wanted to tell your fortune. Senor, I also tell la buena - 
ventura . . . . Give me your hand. . . 

With the best will in the world, he gave it. . . . 

“Xa Santita Gitana. . . It was old Paula, the 
Mexican scrub-woman at the “P. and J.” who had first 
called Lisa that. Others took up the name; — for her 
heart was as sweet as her face, they said. There was 
always some story of her goodness ; of this one or that 
she had helped. . . . 

Charles found himself wondering if his aunt had 
violets blooming in her garden. . . . But no. ... It 
was from the little dark head bent so gravely to his 
open palm the breath of perfume came. . . . 

He smiled. This evening was not the first time he 


HOW LIZA TOLD CHARLES’ FORTUNE 257 


had found it hard to realize that this serene and beauti- 
ful young woman (admired of all, envied by many), 
was one and the same as the desperate little Mexican 
gypsy who had clung terror-wild about his neck as they 
raced together amid scattering bullets. . . . 

“Senor, you have a happy hand. . . .” 

She was looking up at him again, and her eyes were 
soft with love and solicitude, — with an almost humble 
appeal for understanding. . . . But above all they were 
eloquent of womanly composure and command : — 

“I see no lines here but happy lines. There must be 
nothing else. ... I see you are going into danger. You 
go only because you are good. You will come back 
again in safety and in honor, — to find such contentment 
as a man’s heart most craves. . . .” 

Breaking her tone to a confidential aside: — “You pre- 
fer blondes ? — brunettes ?” 

“Brunettes,” answered Charles succinctly. 

“You think so now. But that will change. . . . 
Senor, here there is a little wound.” She indicated with 
a rosy finger-nail a crossed line on the map of his palm: 
— “Forget it ! For it will not even leave a scar ; and 
from it shall grow the greatest good of all. . . . You 
will love and you will marry; — and she shall have blue 
eyes ! Happy eyes that have never had to learn to keep 
a secret. All her heart and all her life shall be to you 
as an open book. . . .” 

Before Charles knew what she was about, he felt her 
lips on her hand. . . . And when he looked down at the 
little warm place they had left he saw it was a tear. 

Next day he was off with a batch of recruits traveling 


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East; — and nobody, not even his aunt, ever heard how 
he had his fortune told him at the kitchen sink. . . . 

' t 

It was during the War “la Santita Git ana" danced 
her way to fortune and to fame. There was so much 
sorrow in the world, — she wanted to help people forget ! 

Night after night she spent herself for the pleasure 
of her audiences. Night after night she danced for 
them, — as beauty dances in the rainbow. .People won- 
dered at her freshness, her spontaneity. There was 
nothing mechanical. ... No flash of ragtime, — no blare 
of jazz. . . . She was gay, and she was tender. She 
was as full of frolic mischief as a woodland squirrel. 
Yet half the time when they applauded they had tears 
in their eyes. That was because she gave back to them 
something that they thought they had lost. . . . 

Everybody who came to Los Angeles must see la 
Santita Gitana . She was the city’s darling. Of course, 
when Miklovitch, the great Russian came, he must see 
her, too. But even before Miklovitch “discovered” her, 
locally she was known as a star. 

She was one of those stage favorites popular almost 
as much for her personality as for her art. Society 
would have welcomed her; but she cared nothing for 
society. Beautiful as she was, she had no lovers. . . . 
Though her heart “was as tender as an angel’s” old 
Paula, the Mexican scrub-woman, would tell you “it was 
not for men. . . 

The truth of the matter was, Lisa had come to be- 
lieve that Michael was dead. There had been no news 
of him for over two years, now. ... In those last days 


HOW LIZA TOLD CHARLES’ FORTUNE 259 


of agonizing struggle many must have fallen unrecorded. 
. . . She could wear no outward badge of mourning; 
but the secret bleeding of her heart blossomed into lovely 
deeds. She wanted to be good enough to go on loving 
Michael, — even if he was in Heaven! That was the 
reason she lived like a saint, and danced like a gypsy, 
and gave away more than half the money that she 
made. . . . 

Perhaps it was because she wanted money to give 
away that she still continued to occupy her little two- 
room apartment on the top floor of the shabby “family 
hotel.” It was clean and it was high, she said. And 
where else could she have found a window with “an 
ocean view?” 

Another reason she did not want to move (but of 
which she said nothing) may have been that there were 
people there who would have missed her if she had gone. 
... It really was a decidedly shabby family hotel, in 
a decidedly shabby part of the city. Decidedly shabby 
people have a way of drifting to such places. People 
who are ashamed, perhaps, to ask for help; but who may 
need it most of all. 

It was among these people she had her friends. 

For instance, there was the young artist who reminded 
her of Owen Griffeth. He had a baby and a wife who 
took in sewing. And often when the windows were open 
Lisa could hear him coughing all through the summer 
nights. . . . He lived in the apartment directly below 
hers. Like Owen he would go on working! But the 
worst of it was, he could not find any market for his 
work. His wife practically supported the family with 


260 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


her needle. . . . And she was always worrying about 
the “goat-milk bill.” The doctor said her husband must 
have goat-milk. . . . But it was nearly thirty cents a 
quart ! 

Lisa took it on herself to manage that that bill should 
be paid. The way she did it was by declaring that she 
was sure people would appreciate Mr. Shepherd’s pic- 
tures, — if only they could be brought into notice. Then 
she went to an art-dealer and induced him to display 
some of them in his window. Of course, no one did buy 
anything; — till just about the time the goat-milk bill 
was coming due. . . . Then Lisa would herself slip in 
and surreptitiously purchase a sketch, with strict in- 
junctions the name of the buyer remain unknown. . . . 
When she got home, she hid it in her closet! and pre- 
sented the purchase price with an air of surprise and 
triumph to her delighted friends. That way the goat 
milk did do the poor struggling young artist (who was 
not entirely without ability, but had neither backing nor 
health) all the good in the world. 

People were always coming and going at the family 
hotel. Many of them, of course, Lisa did not know at 
all. . . . 

It was one sultry evening in September, the last year 
of the war, that an old gentleman who had rented the 
apartment opposite la Scmtita Gitana fell down stairs 
and broke his thigh-bone. Somehow, old people have a 
way of falling. And bones are brittle at eighty-odd. . . . 

Lisa, alone in her rooms, heard the racket and ran 
out. 

It happened she was wearing gypsy dress. The heart 


HOW LIZA TOLD CHARLES’ FORTUNE 261 


of the gypsy is closest of all to the heart of Nature. 

. . . Things “came” to Lisa when she dressed like that. 

. . . So she kept one of her old stage costumes in the 
closet with the pictures that she hid, to wear about at 
home when she wanted to work up a new dance. . . . 

The poor old man lay in a huddled heap on the land- 
ing. Up the stairs and down the stairs people came 
running. But Lisa, who was nearest, was the first to 
reach him. 

The light on the landing was dim. . . . He had white 
hair and it was bloody; for he had struck his head 
against the newel-post as he fell. . . . 

Lisa tried to keep the blood from running into his 
eyes. . . . 

He opened them . . . and the shabby staircase van- 
ished. In its place there shimmered an arc of glittering 
beach. . . . Gray headlands where the sun shone bright 
and blinding. . . . 

“La vida es sueno! (Life is a dream)” he whispered. 

And then, strangely, in the Romano tongue: — “Out 
of what sky did you fly, little sister? Many times have 
I danced with the gitanos. . . 

It was the old Senor de la Rosa, — someone was say- 
ing, — who had, only the day before, rented a room 
on the top floor of the hotel. 

To Lisa, of course, the name meant nothing. . . . But 
the old man had spoken to her in the “secret language. 
. . .” He lay there, his bleeding head pillowed in her 
lap. They must call a doctor! They must get him to 
bed. . . . 

Every day after that la Santita Gitana would go in 


262 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


and sit with her caballero. How he suffered ! The doc- 
tor said he would never get out of his bed again. 

But for Lisa he always had a smile. Had he not also 
danced with the gypsies ? Girls who glowed and 
sparkled in the dusk. Girls with wings to their heels. 
. . . One girl like the flame of a candle. . . . Now he 
was old and alone. . . . His great fear was he would 
spend all his money before he could be properly dead. 
. . . In Mexico everybody knew the de la Rosas. . . . 
They knew there was property, — much property, — that 
should some day be restored. . . . But in Los Angeles 
nobody cared about anything they could not see or 
touch. He was sure the janitor, who waited on him, 
cheated him. . . . What would happen when all his 
money was gone? 

Lisa finally persuaded the old gentleman to let her 
take charge of his purse. She knew places where you 
could buy things! . . . And after that the money did 
go just twice as far! The janitor hated her for it; but 
she and Senor de la Rosa became the most devoted of 
friends. 

He liked to talk to her of his four sons, — who were 
all of them dead. One had been a Governor, and two 
had been generals ; but his favorite was a singer, — and 
he was drowned. . . . 

“My mother was drowned,” Lisa answered unex- 
pectedly; and on an impulse that surprised herself she 
went to her room and got the watch Mama Soledad had 
given her on the Island and brought it to the old man 
as he lay propped up in bed. . . . 

It must be remembered that this was the first time 


HOW LIZA TOLD CHARLES’ FORTUNE 263 


that Lisa had spoken of her mother to anybody since 
that golden morning in May (so many years ago!) 
when she and Snapdragon talked together about 
fairies, — and a few other things. . . . 

Senor de la Rosa took the watch in his hand. . . . 
And his hand began to tremble. . . . He stared strangely 
at the heavy, old-fashioned, ornamental case ... at 
the obscure monogram: — 

“Where did you get this?” he asked. His voice was 
stern. 

“Tell me, — tell me everything you know. . . .” 

The questioning of a vague and reluctant child is a 
very different matter from the questioning of an intelli- 
gent young woman, who is sure of her facts ; — who has 
remembered them and rehearsed them so often in her own 
mind that they can no longer be called vague. . . . 
Of course, the psychology of the thing resolved itself 
into this : — That for the only time in her life Lisa had 
an impulse to trust someone with her story. 

All she could remember about the shipwreck and her 
childhood on the Island with the gypsies, she told. She 
told of how she had been sold “to a rich gentleman” for 
twenty dollars. . . . And he had been good to her and 
sent her to school. . . . till one day she had to leave 
him and go back to the Island. ... It was then Mama 
Soledad had given her the watch. . . . 

“Did she tell you how she came by it?” He was watch- 
ing her sharply. 

“No, Mama Soledad had never told that. . . .” 

There’s always somebody ready to blame the gitanos . 


264 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


. . . Perhaps Senor de la Rosa did not feel he had the 
right to blame. . . . 

Anyway, what he did was to take Lisa’s hand in his 
and draw her gently down till she knelt there close 
beside him on the floor: — 

“Poor little flower, — cast on a stormy sea! The 
young man has no thought of the future. To him beauty 
is beauty the wide world over, — nothing too high for 
him, nothing too low. . . . Listen, my dear. . . .” 

And so it happened at last that Lisa came to know 
who was her father, and who her mother. . . . And how 
she had been cast up on the Island ; and why, though you 
couldn’t call her quite a gypsy (since the de la Rosas 
were of the proudest blood in Mexico), she should have 
such gypsy-looking eyes! 

I do not know whether in telling her story to her 
grandfather Lisa told how as a little girl her mother 
had always lived for her “with God among the stars. 
. . .” But I do know that in what he told her about her 
mother there was no reason she should not go on living 
there ! The story was twenty years old ; and time is a 
great softener. . . . 

“La Vida es sueno. No one can bring back the past.” 
He finished and sighed. 

But I think it would have been truer had he said, 
life is a shadow, — a shadow of the things that have gone 
before. For if no one can bring back the past, can 
anyone escape it? The misfortunes, the hardships we 
find heaviest to bear, are they not shadows, — shadows 
all . . . of some wrong deed sown long ago, perhaps, 
in carelessness ... in mirth. . . . 


HOW LIZA TOLD CHARLES’ FORTUNE 265 


It is a great thing to find a grandfather, — if only 
to lose him again. . . . The newspapers told of the 
“vast Mexican estates” Senor de la Rosa had left to 
his granddaughter, Miss Elisa de la Rosa, — whose stage 
name was Lisa Reyes. They told of the romantic 
reunion of the two in the cheap apartment-hotel where 
Miss Reyes had been living during the war because of 
her “charitable activities.” Both were refugees out of 
Mexico. . . . 

It was probably Miss Kelly who manipulated these 
notices. By r this time she was very fond of Lisa. And 
it seemed tqdier the most satisfactory thing in the world 
“that all that Mexican mystery” should be cleared up. 

. . . Then in the flashing of the Armistice news, — the 
rejoicings and celebrations of victory, — the matter was 
side-tracked. 

As to the Mexican millions, — there was enough money 
left to bury the poor old man. And la Santita Gitana 
did not need to think about inherited fortunes; — since 
it was that same autumn Miklovitch saw her dance! 


CHAPTER XIX 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 

M IKLOVITCH called Lisa his “little miracle. . . ” 
For in her dancing even he, the greatest of all 
the Russians, could find nothing to be added, — nothing 
to be taken away. And that in America, the traditional 
home of the “clog-dance” and the “buck-and-wing. , . .” 

“It could never have happened if she had not come 
out of Mexico,” he said. And added: “But you are 
tired ” 

“Oh, no,” Lisa protested ; to learn one did not protest 
when Miklovitch spoke: — 

“ You are tired. And you cannot dance for me till 
you are fresh again as a spring morning !” 

Besides, he assured her, there was any amount of work 
to be done on his new ballet before she would be needed. 
Rehearsals were not to begin till some time in January. 
Lisa was to come on to New York the first of the year; 
and in the meantime there was to be an interval of beau- 
tiful rest under Miss Kelly’s peppertree: — 

“I do think, Lisa, the least you can do is to spare me 
a visit, — before you go away and forget. . . 

“Oh,— Miss Kelly!” 

“There. . . . I’m a selfish old woman, — if you like. 
Too old to apologize, anyway. ... I suppose the time 
comes to all of us when we realize there is no holding 
back the tide. . . .” 


266 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


267 


The war had been very hard on Miss Kelly’s leaky 
valves. Without Lisa she did not believe she ever would 
have gotten through that terrible nerve-racking stretch 
when there had been no letters from Charles at all ; and 
they knew he was fighting in the Argonne; and every 
morning with sick hearts they turned first to the casualty 
lists. . . . 

When at last his letters did begin to arrive from the 
hospital in Brest, the two women shared them, thrill 
for thrill. To both they seemed the most wonderful 
letters in the world. . . . They were rather wonderful, 
those war-letters, with their casual allusions to things 
of horror, to things heroic. To turn back and read 
them is perhaps the best possible antidote to the moral 
befogments, the political disillusion of our own day. . . . 

Charles’ letters rarely ran to more than a page. And 
the rest of the morning could be spent delightfully, — • 
guessing ! 

“No,” declared Lisa, positively. “You can see for 
yourself — they haven’t had to amputate. Look where 
he says: — 

“The poor fellow next me is making out amazingly 
with his hook-hand. But 1 cam tell , — it's some stunt, 
Tm glad I shan't have to learn. . . 

“H’m,” commented Miss Kelly : — “This nurse he 
speaks of so often must be a Scotch girl. . . . Miss 
Mary McDonald. . . . you don’t know Charles as I 
do, — the most susceptible fellow in the world. . . .” 

But it would almost seem as if Lisa thought she did 
know Charles, quite as well as his aunt, the way she 
looked up from her letter with a little smile: — 


268 


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“Oh, I’m so glad! I’m so glad! And I’m sure she 

has blue eyes. . . . Almost all Scotch girls do have. 
?> 

“Blue eyes? Where does he say anything about her 
eyes ?” 

“He doesn’t, dear. I was just thinking. . . . But 
isn’t this a lovely way for him to feel : — 

“Well, it's over . And 1 can tell you, now it is over, 
1 wouldn't have missed any of it. Even the things it 
would be impossible to write about; the things one must 
do one's best to forget . 1 think that's the way most of 
the fellows size it all up. . . . Take the way we have 
come to feel about women . 1 tell you, these war-nurses 
over here seem just a little bit of Heaven-Come-True. 
. . . I think I have spoken of a Miss Mary McDonald. 

“Spoken of her? My hat, — not at all! But I don’t 
see how you make out from that her eyes are blue . . . ?” 

“Perhaps it’s the gypsy in me ! Most Scotch girls do 
have blue eyes. . . . Wait and see. . . .” 

Still smiling to herself Lisa pulled on her gloves, took 
up her little basket and scissors and passed out of the 
peppertree door to the rose garden. After the mail, 
the next thing was fresh flowers for all the vases. Susan 
had come to depend on Lisa for that. . . . 

There was still one letter left on Miss Kelly’s tray. 
Because the address was in an unfamiliar hand she had 
left it till the last. The New York postmark gave no 
warning. Naturally, much of her correspondence, as 
well as much of Lisa’s these days, came from New 
York. . . . 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


269 


! In spite of the stationery when Miss Kelly opened 
the letter, she thought at first it must be some begging 
scrawl. For it was written in pencil, and the initial 
impression was one of awkward illiteracy. ... It was 
not till she had read it through to the signature (and 
read it again), that she could believe! 

It was very short. And it was from Michael Martyn. 
He was home again ! He was writing to ask her if she 
would be able to put him up for a day or two? . . . 
The doctors had recommended California. . . . And he 
must tell her, — he wasn’t in very good shape. He had 
been “gassed”; and then he had been taken prisoner. 
. . . That was nearly three years ago. It was possible 
with proper treatment at first, his eyes might have been 
saved. . . . The scrawl ran off the page here. . . . But 
he was learning to readjust himself; and would try not 
to be a nuisance, — if Miss Kelly “could put him up for 
a day or two, — just till he had time to look round. . . .” 

Lisa returning with her basket of brimming flowers 
stopped for a moment perplexed in the peppertree door. 
. . . There was a sound she did not understand. 

Then she saw it was Miss Kelly, — sobbing, sobbing, 
rocking back and forth, — the tears trickling through 
her fingers that were pressed against her face: — 

“Wicked . . . oh, wicked! With his gifts, — his 
youth! Who lets such things happen? Better, better 
for him, — poor boy, — if he had never come home at 
all!” 

1 Though the peppertree bungalow was, in itself, just 
about big enough for Miss Kelly and Susan and some 


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one like Lisa (who, Susan still declared, “ added to the 
home”), they were fortunate in having an annex, or 
detached guest-room. . . . “La Casita Contenta ” 
Charles’ little house, which years ago he had built 
for himself in his aunt’s orange-grove. . . . 

What could be more suitable for Michael now? It 
would give him the independence he wanted ; and at the 
same time he would be close to them, — an integral part 
of their regime. . . . “A hotel was no place for him,” 
Miss Kelly declared. You could see how he shrank 
from the thought. . . . “Put him up for a day or 
two?” He wouldn’t want to leave them, — once he 
knew of Charles’ little house! 

Miss Kelly, who had gone quite to pieces over 
Michael’s letter, and had to take a heart-tablet and lie 
down on the couch, nearly went to pieces again next 
morning when Lisa came to her with a gravely shadowed 
face and a quiet voice and announced: — That she had 
changed her plans and had written to Miklovitch, tell- 
ing him she was starting for New York at once. 

“Starting for New York at once? What are you 
talking about, Lisa? . . . My dear, — are you ill? You 
look all drawn through a knothole. . . 

“Not ill. . . . But rather — tired, perhaps. . . .” 

“Tired? As if you were the only one to feel tired 
these days ! I never heard of anything so selfish. . . .” 

“Oh, Miss Kelly! You don’t understand. . . .” 

“I don’t think I do. . . . There’s nothing in the world 
to take you to New York till the first of the year. 
You’ve always seemed so sympathetic about Michael; — 
and you could help out enormously, if you stay. . . . 


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Listen. . * . Last night I got out all the pamphlets and 
stuff Michael used to send me when he was so interested 
in that Committee for Men Blinded in Battle, in the 
early days of the war; — before we ever thought lie. . . . 
Well, it seems the thing is an art. It isn’t simply a 
matter of reading the newspapers to them half an hour 
every morning after breakfast. I could do that myself. 
But they have to be taught to laugh again. . . . And to 
go out walking. . . . And to write on the typewriter 
and tie their own neckties. . . . And to want to meet 
people; and to make change. . . . And feel glad they 
are alive ! What can Michael have learned of all that, — 
over there in a German prison-camp? 

66 As for me, — with my leaky valves. . . . How long 
would I last at that sort of work? But you with your 
youth, your magnetism, your gentleness. . . . Why, — 
you are the very person. . . . Michael is sure to take to 
you, and you to him. . . . And if God didn’t send you 
here for that very purpose. . . .” 

“Oh, — if I could believe it !” Lisa’s hands were pressed 
against her heart. 

“Believe it? It’s only cowards who are afraid to 
believe. I’m not saying there won’t be discouragements, 
— disappointments. But if it helps to put him in the 
right way. . . ” 

“If I could feel that I had helped him. . . .” 

Those tragic notes always held a thrill for Miss 
Kelly, — left her wondering whether, after all, “the legit- 
imate” wasn’t losing something very much worth while 
in Miss Reyes. . . . 

“Where is your letter?” 


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“In the postbox.” 

“Go get it, then. . . .” 

Mechanically Lisa went out to the little porch. Me- 
chanically she took the letter to Miklovitch from the box 
and carried it back to her room. 

There she sat down by the open window. Through 
the window one looked out to the brightness of roses 
glowing on either side a gravel path. . . . Up this 
path between the roses Michael would be coming soon. 

... Not the Michael she had used to know, — gifted, 
successful, full of the dreams and the fire of youth; 
but another Michael, broken, done-for, “gassed. . . .” 
Gassed must mean lungs as well as eyes. . . . 

With that strange mesmeric susceptibility to pro- 
jected vision, — the deepest and most intimate expression 
of her gypsy heritage, — as she sat there in the window 
suddenly Lisa saw this new Michael groping his blind 
way toward her. . . . The light fell on his white and 
stricken face. . . . He stumbled and stretched out his 
hands. . . . 

Who could help him as she could help? 

From the chair Lisa slipped down on her knees. . . . 
She had done nothing to seek out this meeting. In peni- 
tent and self-accusing tears she had resigned herself to 
the loss of Michael from her life. Now, in his affliction, 
— Who was leading him back to her? Who was it had 
guided their feet, through peril, through catastrophe, 
to this new joining of the way? . . . 

For a long time Lisa knelt in the window, — very still. 
. . . The truest praying is nothing but listening, really. 
. . . When at last she rose from her knees it was as if a 


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light was shining from her. Not only her eyes were 
different. . . . Her color, her very carriage, expressed 
a sort of radiant, triumphant joy. 

Let Michael come! Only cowards are afraid to be- 
lieve. . . . 

As Elisa de la Rosa, legitimatized by her grand- 
father’s recognition, petted, “paragraphed,” — the new 
star of the dance, — for one month she would give him 
... all that she had to give! 

Four years had passed since their tragic parting at 
San Miguel; — years as full of change for Michael as 
for her. Never had there been one breath of suspicion 
to connect the new Elisa she knew herself to have be- 
come with the other weak pitiful little Lisa, who, people 
said, had thrown herself into the sea. . . . The puzzle 
was, such should be the story, — when it had come so 
very near to being the truth! What others accepted 
without question was Michael in his blindness likely to 
doubt? 

Yet if he did come to doubt it, — if through the 
shadows he was being led back to her by some strange 
gleaming of celestial love, — if he knew her, and could 
“forgive her” (never had Lisa been able to forget how 
Michael had turned away shuddering that afternoon on 
the sands after Fred Smalley came back to San Miguel 
and tried to “tell things. . . .”) she would accept it as 
a sign that she was forgiven at last by Heaven itself ! 

Such was the ordeal by fire, the sacrifice almost me- 
diaeval in its mystical simplicity of faith, to which Lisa 
had resolved to submit her fate. . . . And because she 
wanted to play quite fair in this crucial cast of her 


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destiny, she drew from her finger the ring Michael had 
“wished” on it. . . . Though there was only one chance 
in a hundred he would ever notice whether she wore a 
ring or not. . . . She lifted it to her lips, kissed the 
raised outline of the cross that decorated the seal ; then 
attached it to a slender golden chain and fastened it 
round her throat. . . . 

If there is more rejoicing in Heaven over one sinner 
that repenteth than over the ninety- and-nine righteous 
who have never needed to repent (though the proportion 
of sinless ones who know not such need seems rather 
excessive) , one must suppose it is because the heart that 
has sinned and suffered and humbled itself is more 
nearly akin to Paradise than are the other ninety-and- 
mne. • • • 

The day came round at last for Michael’s arrival. 
His train would not get into Los Angeles till late in 
the evening. By noon Miss Kelly showed obvious signs 
of nervousness. Lisa did not seem nervous. All morn- 
ing she had been busy putting the finishing touches to 
“ Casita Contenta, — ” Charles’ little house. . . . 

“My dear, you have made everything so bright and 
happy looking! Almost as if you ejected him to 
know. . . .” 

“He will know P* 

The furniture was carefully adjusted. Everything 
that was necessary ; nothing that was obtrusive. Once 
accustomed to the arrangement of things, Michael could 
put his hand on whatever he wanted. There was nothing 
to be tripped over; nothing to be collided into. A bowl 


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275 


of mignonette and blue larkspur, — because they were 
sweet, but not too sweet, — was on the writing table. The 
little house consisted of a bedroom, a dressing-room, 
and a bath. . . . Charles had believed in making himself 
quite at home at his aunt’s. Michael’s man would oc- 
cupy the dressing-room ; — he had written he was bring- 
ing a man with him. On the little porch in front there 
was a chaise-longue and a hammock. . . . The air was 
perfumed with the scent of honeysuckle and Reve d’Or 
roses and lemon-blossoms which bloom at any time of 
year. . . . 

Old Charley Kelly, who happened to be in town, was 
coming over with the machine himself to get them in 
time to meet the train. He would not hear of sending 
the chauffeur, — though personally he disliked driving 
at night: — 

“Nothin’ but friends,” he explained. “Nothin’ but 
friends to greet him. . . . That’s my idea!” 

He bore all the earmarks of the self-made cattleman 
and bore them honorably. Like his sister, his fight 
had been a fight to the finish; like her, he had not with 
success lost a touch of his genuineness. . . . Like all 
the Kellys, from the first he “had fallen for Lisa.” . . . 
She was so “darn pretty,” he said. And he was always 
wondering how it was Charles hadn’t proposed to her. 
... If he’d been thirty years younger. . . . ! 

Susan was almost as nervous as Miss Kelly. For 
three days she had been baking cake. It wasn’t to be 
supposed there had been much cake , — where Mr. Michael 
was coming from! But she couldn’t remember which 
flavoring he liked best. ... It upset her very much, 


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that she couldn’t. “ Such a congenial young gentleman. 
. . .” Susan, of course, had known Michael in New 
York. ... So she baked six different kinds; — and there 
they stood in a row on the pantry shelf. . . . 

At the last moment Miss Kelly collapsed. She had 
to take a heart-tablet and lie down on the couch : — 

“It's no go. . . . I’d never make the station. . . . 
You’ll have to rep-rep- represent me, Lisa. . . . I’ll be 
all right by the time you’re back again. ...” 

“Here’s a good detective story,” Lisa adjusted the 
rug, the shade of the reading lamp. . . . “You don’t 
want to sound as if you’d been crying, dear.” 

“Teach your grandmother to suck duck-eggs !” 
snapped Miss Kelly. “As if you could know cmythmg 
about the way I feel! I loved ... I loved Michael 
Martyn. . . . There, child, — run along. I’ll be all right 
by the time you are back. . . .” 

After all the emotional stress and strain of prepara- 
tion the meeting, on the surface, was almost common- 
place. 

Michael came walking down the concrete exit from the 
tracks, a little after the first press of passengers had 
passed. And all anyone could have noticed was a slight 
young fellow, fragile looking, rather wan, — who held 
himself almost carefully erect and wore dark glasses and 
kept close to the man who carried the grips, — though he 
did not take his arm. . . . As he came nearer you saw 
the bit of ribbon in his coat. . . . 

There could be no mistaking that it was Michael! 
Lisa stepped forward at once. 

“I am Miss de la Rosa,” she said. “Miss Kelly sent 


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me to meet you. It’s rather a nice time to get in, I 
think ; because one has the night to rest. . . . And it’s 
pleasanter, too, driving through the city when there is 
no crush. . . 

She saw Michael start, — turn his face toward her. 
. . . Evidently he had not yet grown accustomed to not 
expecting to see what he looked at. . . . Then, with all 
the old charm, to which for Lisa was added a poign- 
ancy, he put out his hand: — 

“I am very glad to meet you, Miss de la Rosa. You 
must be Spanish, I think. . . 

“My grandfather was Spanish,” Lisa answered. She 
was determined to get it over with. “My stage name, 
which you may have heard, is Lisa Reyes. . . . And I 
do gitcma dances. . . 

“Lisa?. . . .” Michael fell into step beside her; but 
made no other comment on the name. . . . “How did 
you come to take up gitana dancing. . . ? The Mexi- 
can gypsies have a special interest for me.” 

“Their dances are something quite distinct,” Lisa 
answered. Her tone sounded stiff, even to herself. 

Michael was quick to feel that perhaps he had of- 
fended. A fellow who didn’t see was at such a tremen- 
dous disadvantage: — 

“Yes, I should think that must be so,” he agreed. 
And then that there might be no awkward pause: — 
“How wonderful the air is to-night! As soft as sum- 
mer, — and perfumed. Are you wearing flowers?” 

“I have one rose,” she told him. “A Reve d’ Or. . . . 
They are my favorites. All around the porch of the 
little house you are to live in they make a perfect bower. 


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On the north side is honeysuckle, and on the south, the 
roses. . . .” 

By this time they had reached the car, where Kelly 
senior was waiting : — 

“Here he is!” cried Lisa. There was almost a gay 
little ring to her voice. And then to Michael : — “It’s Mr. 
Charley Kelly, — Miss Kelly’s brother. He wanted the 
honor of driving you home himself. . . 

There was a moment of brief greeting. . . . The man 
got up in front with Mr. Kelly and Michael opened the 
door of the car and helped Lisa in; — or, rather, Lisa 
helped him to help her in. It was easy to see how 
Michael strained himself to meet the conventions; to 
appear to do things as other men would do them. He 
had written he was beginning to adjust himself. Evi- 
dently, the most painful period was over. . . . Lisa was 
glad of this ; — because it made things easier for Michael. 

With a little sigh she settled herself in the seat be- 
side him. He had accepted her! 

The sigh was echoed. . . . Suddenly she felt Michael 
trembling. 

A motion which she could not control swept her body 
toward him. Their breath mingled. . . . For a moment 
his groping hands clung to hers. His nervous emaciated 
fingers gripped her wrists. . . . Lisa began to tremble, 
too. 

Only for an instant that exquisite, instinctive contact 
lasted. . . . Then with the most delicate resolution in 
the world Lisa withdrew. 

After all, it had perhaps been nothing but one of 
those unconquerable waves of terror. . . . The pathetic 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


279 


longing of the newly blind for the reassurance, in un- 
familiar surroundings, of touch, of contiguity. . . . 

She detached the rose from her dress. She leaned 
again toward Michael and placed it in his fingers. 

“I brought you one that was only half awake,” she 
said. 

He raised it to his face. And when he next spoke it 
was as to someone he was sure would understand; — 
someone with whom there was going to be no need for 
explanations. 

“You ought to see some of the French gardens.” 
Didn’t they almost all, that year of their returning, like 
to tell us of all the pleasant things they could? “Those 
untouched by the war. Rosebushes that have bloomed 
since the days of Lafayette ! And the fruit trees, too. 
... I wonder why people don’t have pleached fruit trees 
in California?” 

Perhaps to neither of them the rest of the ride seemed 
very real; nor the arrival at the peppertree bungalow 
where Miss Kelly kissed Michael foreign fashion on both 
cheeks, and did manage to sound as if she hadn’t been 
crying too much; — while Susan hovered in the back- 
ground with a large tray laden down with cake and 
hot foaming chocolate, because even if it was California 
it was winter time, and she was determined Mr. Michael 
should be nourished! Would he prefer fruit-cake, or 
pound-cake, or merely macaroons? 

That was too hard a choice! He was going to try 
them all. Such a congenial young gentleman! . . . 
Susan had remembered exactly right. 

Yet presently they saw what an effort it was; — what 


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a terrible effort ! The effects of a German prison-camp 
were hardly to be lived down in a month or two. No- 
body said anything about that, of course; but Miss 
Kelly told Michael he must be a “good boy” now, and 
go over to his own little house and get to sleep. 

And Lisa in the softest of voices added: — He would 
smell the honeysuckle and the roses, all night long. . . . 

Michael turned again in the doorway when he heard 
Lisa speak ! 

He had not thought he was going to be able to get 
to sleep. Yet strangely and almost instantly he did. 
. . . And in his dreams it seemed to him that the room 
was full of music. . . . 

He could hardly believe it at first. It was so long 
since there had been any music ! The delicate whisper- 
ing notes filled his heart, flooded his brain. Without 
growing louder, they grew clearer, more sustained. . . . 
Ineffably sweet, poignantly stirring, they seemed to 
Michael like a memory, — that was more than half a 
promise. . . . 

The tears started under his closed lids. He forgot 
that he was blind. He forgot that he would never play 
again. He forgot that everything had been blotted out 
of his life that could possibly make it worth the liv- 
ing. . . . 

Suddenly, he sat up in bed and stretched out his 
arms ; — 

“Lisa !” he cried. . “Lisa!” 

It is hardly to be imagined any mother would delib- 
erately set out to torment a sorely stricken and afflicted 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 


281 


son. During the three years Michael had been lost to 
her (expatriated, submerged, under the bitter bureau- 
cratic rule of one of the worst run German prison- 
camps), Judith Martyn’s hair had lost its sheen of raven 
blackness. The high timbre of her voice had acquired 
at times almost a shrewish ring. “The war had made 
an old woman of her. . . .” That was one of the things 
Michael was never permitted to forget: — “Other pris- 
oners had managed to communicate with their families. 

“It was because he had enlisted as a Canadian,” 
Michael attempted to explain: — “There seemed to be 
an especial animus, an especial distinction made, against 
the British prisoners, — always. Germans measure by 
rule of thumb. He — hadn’t seemed able to get the mat- 
ter straightened out. . . .” 

He did not add the excuse of his blindness. Those 
first agonizing months of neglect, of dumb, incredulous, 
bewildering enduring, remained forever to Michael a 
time it was impossible to talk about. Besides, it would 
not have made any difference. Nothing had ever made 
any difference to Judith. Her moods were as savagely 
relentless as the scourges of the furies. All her life she 
had flagellated with them those she loved. . . . 

Michael was his father over again, — she could not 
repeat it too often. . . . Ready to give up, — without 
an inch of fight. . . . How could he expect to get better 
when he would not exert himself? Did he want to go 
walking? Did he want her to read to him? It was 
ridiculous of him to refuse to touch his violin because 
he could not play now as he had used to play. . . . 


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By some strange ruling of Providence, Michael had 
not died during those three hell-black years in Germany. 
But he was dying in New York; — and that was how the 
doctors came to order him to California. 

Again Judith was furious. She had always hated the 
West. Why couldn’t Michael learn to accommodate 
himself? Just like his father! . . . Well, — if he would 
go, he must take a man with him. She had leased her 
apartment for the season. There were a hundred other 
complications. . . . 

It was under Miss Kelly’s peppertree Michael was 
at last finding the rest he had started out to die to find ; 
— since it hadn’t seemed possible he could get it any 
other way : — 

“Where you are I can think music,” he said to Lisa. 
And then between them fell one of those strange stabbing 
silences. . . . 

Did Michael know? The beating of Lisa’s pulses 
sounded in her ears like drums. . . . Oh, if he knew, — 
why did he not speak? Why did he not give some other 
sign than those terrible, pitiless thrusts of memory, — 
that were almost as cruel as they were beautiful and 
sweet. . . . 

It was not like Michael to be cruel ! 

One day when they were alone together under the 
peppertree he had leaned over to Lisa and taken her 
hand in his. He had run his fingers down her slim 
fingers. . . . Both their hands were cold as stone. “You 
don’t wear any rings,” was what Michael said. . . . 

Rose Kelly could not congratulate herself enough on 


FLOWER OF THE WORLD 283 

the “hunch” she had had that Michael and Lisa were 
going to prove “cut out for each other. . . .” 

“Why,— it’s as plain as the nose on your face !” This 
to old Charley, whose nose was quite obviously Hiber- 
nian : — “Michael Martyn came out to California to die. 
. . . Dear boy , — he wanted to be as polite as he could 
about it ! But mark my words ! They aren’t either of 
them thinking of anything like that these days ! Watch 
his face when he hears her voice; watch hers when she 
sees him coming through the orange grove. . . .” 

“But she’s tied up, ain’t she? Hand and foot with 
that Russian chap?” 

“Her dancing contract, — yes. She’ll have to dance, 
of course. . . . More’s the pity, if she didn’t. But I 
never heard of a case yet where that sort of engagement 
cut out the other sort. . . . No, Charley. This isn’t 
going to be an occasion for tomb-stones !” 

Michael did not want to be cruel. He had suffered 
too much himself from the cruelty of others ever will- 
ingly to step on a spider again, — if it could be avoided. 
But when a fellow didn’t see, he couldn’t be quite sure 
where he was going to step. And that was why he 
had to be cruel to Lisa. Handicapped as he was, he 
could think of no other way of wringing her secret from 
her. If he could only hurt her enough, she would, per- 
haps, cry out ! 

People who do not see are not easily deceived. They 
may be puzzled, put at a piteous disadvantage. If 
Michael had not known that his Lisa had thrown herself 
into the sea, he would have recognized her at once in 


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this new Elisa de la Rosa, — the beautiful star of the 
dance. . . . He had recognized her voice. Was it pos- 
sible there could be any other voice with the same caress- 
ing cadences, — half gay, half appealing? To his sensi- 
tive musician’s ear it was unmistakable. He had rec- 
ognized her hand, — with its slim, smooth fingers. To 
his sensitive musician’s touch, that, too was beyond 
question. . . . 

Yet — was he suddenly to disbelieve the thing he had 
been believing for four years? The week following 
Lisa’s tragic vanishing, Sylvestre, the gypsy, had ap- 
peared in San Miguel. . . . Gringos could make the 
devil of a fuss. . . . Sylvestre was determined there 
should be no hue-and-cry after Lisa. Wherefore he 
sought out Michael, and with the tears streaming down 
his face told of the discovery of his half-sister’s drowned 
body by the gypsy fishing-fleet. The long hair was 
floating about it like floating kelp. . . . The gypsies 
had tried to lift it into their boats. But there was a 
high tide running. The body had been swept out to 
sea. . . . Michael had never doubted the truth of Syl- 
vestre’s story. And there had been later contribu- 
tory evidence which appeared to confirm it. . . . 

It had been this contributory evidence that had sent 
him hurrying to Canada to enlist. ... It had been 
this contributory evidence that had first killed his 
music. . . . And, now, when he had quite made up his 
mind there never would be any music any more, — it had 
come back! 

Perhaps that was the greatest miracle of all! At 
night when he was asleep the sweet singing voices bathed 


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285 


his senses, — soothed him and healed him . . . washed 
away his sorrows, filled him with a new joy, a new hope. 
In the daytime the sunshine turned to music, — warm and 
golden. . . . The perfume of the roses, the songs of 
the mockingbirds chimed and rang together. . . . 

“If only,” he said one morning to Lisa, “the mechan- 
ical side of it wasn’t barred to me. . . 

“Why, it isn’t,” she answered, and let a rose fall into 
her basket. They were alone in the garden. She was 
gathering dowers for Susan along the sunny gravel-path. 
. . . “Don’t you remember the men at the Phare? 
What they could learn to do, you can learn to do, 
Michael. . . . Oh, — Michael!” 

That cry, — that name, when neither of them were 
expecting it! 

“ Lisa !” 

He took a bewildered step, groping his blind way 
toward her. The light fell on his white and stricken 
face. . . . He stumbled and stretched out his arms. . . . 

She dropped her scissors. She dropped her flowers. 

“Lisa!” He had imprisoned her hands. “Where is 
my ring?” 

“Warm in my breast, Michael. . . . I — I — was 
afraid.” 

“Afraid, — dearest !” 

Long ago in the German prison-camp Michael had 
come to forgive Lisa. For if to understand all is to 
pardon all, to suffer is to understand. 

“Oh, but Michael. ... It was true ! It was true, — 
what they said!” 

Michael hardly heard her. He was thinking that he had 


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nothing, — she all: — “Lisa! Lisa, — what have I to give 
you now?” 

“The Flower of the World, Michael. . . . The flower 
I played with, — and threw away* . . 






































a 





